BEGIN:VCALENDAR VERSION:2.0 PRODID:-//The Open Road: a learning community - ECPv6.15.3//NONSGML v1.0//EN CALSCALE:GREGORIAN METHOD:PUBLISH X-WR-CALNAME:The Open Road: a learning community X-ORIGINAL-URL:https://openroadpdx.com X-WR-CALDESC:Events for The Open Road: a learning community REFRESH-INTERVAL;VALUE=DURATION:PT1H X-Robots-Tag:noindex X-PUBLISHED-TTL:PT1H BEGIN:VTIMEZONE TZID:America/Los_Angeles BEGIN:DAYLIGHT TZOFFSETFROM:-0800 TZOFFSETTO:-0700 TZNAME:PDT DTSTART:20210314T100000 END:DAYLIGHT BEGIN:STANDARD TZOFFSETFROM:-0700 TZOFFSETTO:-0800 TZNAME:PST DTSTART:20211107T090000 END:STANDARD END:VTIMEZONE BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210315 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210415 DTSTAMP:20260502T014603 CREATED:20210316T024709Z LAST-MODIFIED:20211130T014147Z UID:1849-1615766400-1618444799@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness 3/15/21 DESCRIPTION:picture by Andy Larkin \n  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nMarch 15\, 2021 \n  \nA note on this picture: \n  \nA couple of years ago I began illustrating a South Indian book on meditation and mindfulness called “A Hundred Verses of Self-Instruction” by a 19th century yogi from South India named Narayana Guru. This picture shows Verse 16\, which reads as follows: \n  \nA very vast wasteland suddenly \nflooded by a river in spate – thus comes the sound \nthat fills the ears and opens the eyes of the one who is never distracted; \nsuch should be the experience of the seer par excellence. \n  \nEveryone who meditates probably hears about some far-off experience called “enlightenment” that’s had only after years of heroic meditation sitting in a cave. When you read this verse\, you might think that’s what’s being described\, but I don’t think the author intended that. In a certain sense\, there’s something in us that’s always focused\, never distracted. It was working when you first opened your eyes this morning and looked out on your world. It was a wordless awareness that heard every thought you’ve had today\, and it monitored your heartbeat and your respiration when you were deeply asleep. If you look for it\, you can’t see it\, and you can’t say anything about it\, other than that it Is. So the picture shows you\, the “seer par excellence\,” in the center\, with that wordless awareness functioning continually in all these ways. As that awareness is all-filling\, the author likened it to a river in full flood. \n  \nI hope you enjoy the picture! \n  \nWith best wishes to all \n—Andy Larkin \n* \n  \nWe are what we think. \nAll that we are arises with our thoughts. \nWith our thoughts we make the world. \n  \n—words of the Buddha\, from The Dhammapada\, version by Thomas Byrom \n* \n  \nWelcome to our seventh meditation and mindfulness dialogue! The numbers below refer to passages from the book Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh. (JS) \n* \n  \nA few months ago\, I squeezed a whitehead near the tip of my nose\, squeezing out a most satisfying tiny white tube of gook. It turned out that in my enthusiasm\, I must have squeezed out some of the material that actually constituted that part of my nose\, because the next morning there was a pit displayed there\, of inestimable depth. \nOver the ensuing months I have sometimes used cortisone cream or vitamin E to help along my body’s unceasing but ineffective efforts to rebuild that little piece of nasal real estate. Most of the time\, I have just watched\, in my bathroom mirror\, the ceaseless process of rebuilding\, destruction\, rebuilding\, etc… Had this happened sixty-five years ago\, when I was fifteen (and it probably did\, given all the squeezing I was doing in those days)\, it would have healed in a week.  \nThis increasing inability of my body to fight my and time’s ravishings is part of a gradual slowing down of my systems. I can feel and see\, in and on my body and brain\, the cascade of imperfections always coming and coming. \nThe falling away of functions is like being stroked; I am being prepared\, so gently really\, molecule by molecule\, to detach completely from this pulpy shell that is me and not-me. \nAll ways of going are good. I am very grateful to be able to participate\, so far\, in this way. \n  \n—Ken Margolis \n* \n  \n[Here are some excerpts from Michel’s meditation and mindfulness journal. I highly recommend the practice of keeping a journal to everyone. JS] \n  \nFebruary 1\, 2021 \n#75  Your True Nature \nThis idea could challenge some of us. For me\, the point I think Thây is trying to make is: not only is “heaven” or “nirvana” possible\, but\, like the ability to awaken (be a buddha)\, is already contained within all of us. If this existence is simply part of the journey\, then\, maybe\, I don’t have to attach to the identity of this self (or body driving that story). I can release those judgements—good/bad\, up/down\, like/dislike\, etc.—and simply be. I think this is where the challenge of living arises: letting go of attachment to preconceived (or inherited) beliefs or notions about life and what comes next. We can focus on the life we live now and be part of the now. The future\, not needing our control\, or guidance\, will attend to itself without our involvement (including whatever comes after “life.”) \nWe can and do (briefly) experience nirvana (“heaven on earth”). Sometimes\, I think\, it happens and we’re too busy with past/future concerns to notice. Other times\, we realize what we’ve found and\, in our excitement\, we begin grasping at that (old) moment\, trying to hold on to “perfection” forever. It’s fleeting\, this thing called “now.” If we learn to hold gently\, with open hands\, we might be able to relax into a moment\, become more familiar and comfortable in that space\, and eventually we may even bring some of it with us to share with others. \nWhatever it is\, or whatever it looks/feels like\, words will fail us to describe and share with others. We’ll know that they would benefit from what we found\, (our experience—but one of their own)\, yet each person must find his/her own way to nirvana/heaven in the now. The journey is where we find “the meaning\,” not the destination. I suspect this is why the Buddha had so much to say—not only do words fail us\, but others (each uniquely) hear a message differently\, based on their own life experience. My excitement\, over a moment in heaven on earth can pull me out of my “moment….” \nFor me\, it is like practicing zazen (just sitting) in the Zen dojo. I practice in a safe neutral space with the intent that the effect of learning to be present to the “now” will leach over into everyday life. I see heaven/nirvana interaction the same way. As I learn to be more present to “now\,” I am able to do so during ordinary (non-cushion practice) life. Likewise\, as I experience heaven\, I can just be with this. Eventually\, the experience will be transferable (translatable?) to everyday life too. May you find your nirvana soon. \n  \nFebruary 4\, 2021 \n#78  The Wounded Child \nThis is a toughie. I am aware of my wounded child within. I just don’t\, (or haven’t been aware of how to)\, understand “embracing” the child within. I have made some deliberate efforts to connect. So far\, I’ve not had much success even being aware of him. One day\, I’ll be able to create a sense of safety for him and be attentive to his needs—through practicing mindfulness. Until then\, I keep doing my best to care for this mind/body and practice mindful living often—on and off cushion—mostly “off cushion” currently. \nI don’t know about you\, but I want to connect with my child self—wounded or not. To reconnect\, reopen\, or revive the state of child-like awe and wonder—to embrace and protect that awareness. Being a “grown-up” doesn’t mean being “old.” Our world values strange\, alien ideals which we were compelled/forced to adopt/adhere our self identity. A result is we close off from parts of the world\, or shut down awareness to the beauty\, and then struggle for the rest of our adult life to return to that connection\, awareness\, “innocence” we once possessed. Some never find it again\, due to looking for outward objects for inward fulfillment. Our inner child\, wherever he or she is hiding\, is waiting to be heard\, seen\, loved\, held\, protected\, and known again. We only need to be quiet\, look and listen. \n  \nFebruary 14\, 2021 \n#82  Something to Believe In \nIt is a day dedicated to ideals of love—regardless of its origins or current capitalization. I am a little bit tender of heart. NEWS INSIDE from the Marshall Project\, (Issue 6\, December\, 2020) \n(https://www.themarshallproject.org/2020/06/04/i-wonder-if-they-know-my-son-is-loved)\, \n  \n “I Wonder If They Know My Son Is Loved” by Ymilul Bates: This was a heart rending story of what one mother experienced as she visited her young son. Words fail to express other feelings for me\, beyond the sadness I experience thinking of what my own mother has faced to come visit me—and I wonder how she has “felt” about all of this—worsened by guilt that I dragged my parents into this place with me. But that’s love\, isn’t it? To follow your loved ones wherever they may go—emotionally\, if not physically—to set aside my comfort and accept a new paradigm for “normal\,” and go to a place (made to create fear and isolation) to bring and/or share comfort\, compassion and love to a person I care about. I wonder if I could do it\, to be strong enough to overcome discomfort and fear to share a restricted moment with an other\, for whom I feel love—could I? I want to hope so. I’ve only known this side of the exchange—receiving the gift of love and compassion\, the gifting of value estimation to remind me that I do have worth in this world. Whether it has been my mother and father\, uncle and aunt (in person)\, or the generous volunteers of Group Dialogue and Theatre for OHOM\, or religious volunteers and teachers—each has brought light\, color\, beauty\, love\, compassion inside\, and shown me that I am more than a number\, a statistic\, a criminal code violation followed by a sentence\, that I am still a human being\, that I still have worth and value\, that I am still lovable\, able to love\, and that I am worthy of it. The saddest\, darkest hour must be for those here for whom the call never comes for a visit\, a program\, a call-out to school or any other life-affirming event; because these walls give back only noise\, overwhelming light\, or absolute darkness\, (never warmth)\, and they never give back love\, compassion\, or humanity. So on this day of love\, SOMETHING TO BELIEVE IN is  love. We each do our part to hold on to our spark\, but to fan the flame I found I must give it away to another—two sparks become a flame\, many sparks can become a fire to warm ourselves\, together. \n(Now\, I’ve paused to read…Thây.) \nThây spoke of mindfulness as the “something” to believe in\, which is present in everyday concrete actions\, such as sitting or drinking water. I offer this to add. Experiencing love. If I give of myself\, whatever the moment may be\, to the experience of love\, and I do it mindfully\, (focused\, fully present\, not distracted by past or future\, or worries clouding the now)\, then I can sink into the moment and really feel  this love. I will also be ready to return love\, fully committed and freely. \nI can’t think of a time\, since being incarcerated (August\, 2007) to the present\, or even prior to being locked away\, that the idea of love has not been my quest\, my holy grail. I didn’t always have the words\, or the capacity to express/receive (with full awareness) love as it was offered. But I was always pursuing it as a precious gem\, a treasure beyond compare\, buried beneath a mountain. I have experienced various moments over the years\, when awakened to the reality and beauty of love\, and now know it was not a fable\, or a lie\, or something just for those others more special than I. To this day I still struggle and search for my place in the sun\, and I Believe\, when it’s my time\, I’ll find the completeness held within. Until then\, I can BELIEVE IN this reality I have for now\, knowing I have love inside and outside these dark and musty walls. \n  \nFebruary 28\, 2021 \n#88  The Deepest Relief   (the day after turning 49!) \n“…the deepest kind of relief is the realization of nirvana” (or heaven on earth\, if you would prefer different terms.) The best part of today’s thought is this: Everything is “perfect” as it is; I have everything necessary to fully realize heaven on Earth for this self right now\, and all I need to do to access this is—breathe\, all the rest can take care of itself…. \nI find the allegory of farming—“cultivation” to be highly relevant. We must prepare soil for planting—tilling\, weeding\, fertilizing\, watering\, more tilling\, resting\, exposing to nature\, etc.—then we can “plant” seeds\, water and fertilize for a specific result. \nI think life can be much the same. Mindfulness can be both plowing/tilling of soil—turning up the deep and rich fertile ground—and it can also be the time allowing the ground to rest in nature…. We reap what we sow\, so they say—I think “they” are right….. \nWhen I neglect all of my practice\, I find the ground hard and dry; no matter how abundant the rains have been. But when I maintain even a small practice I find life is grander\, and I am more of the person I desire to be. I may not attract all the butterflies and pollinators to my “field\,” as I desire; at least the ones who do attend my field are appreciated and seen. \nI want to encourage each and everyone to discover and develop a time and space to focus  on and to “cultivate” a garden of life. I believe it will make all the difference to be deliberate\, rather than hoping for a “happy accident” to come about—it’s not as common as many wish it was. I too shall strive towards a daily\, regular\, focused\, recharge of love. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \nShakespeare said: “All the world’s a stage\, and all the men and women merely players.” Like Plato’s Cave\, this is a deep metaphor. When called upon\, we play our parts. At the moment\, I’m offstage. Nothing is required of me. I don’t have to pretend to be Johnny Stallings until I get my next cue. \n  \nBright sunlight this morning (3/6/21). Always welcome this time of year. The forms and colors of Spring are vivid. I like to sit quietly\, like this\, in the morning. Even words like “meditation” and “mindfulness” are unnecessary. It’s too ordinary (and too extraordinary) to be named. I like how\, in the last verse of the Hsin Hsin Ming\, Seng Ts’an says: “No past\, no future\, no now.” No now! \n  \n—(pretending for a moment to be) Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nBelow is a copy of the Dalai Lama’s morning meditation to begin with right intention for the day. I think you will enjoy and relate. \nI thought it might be great for the dialogue people too. It makes me think of the intentions we must make to come regularly with kind and open intentions for everyone’s well being.   \nThis prayer was written by Shantideva\, a Buddhist monk of the Mahayana tradition who lived around 700 AD. It is said that His Holiness the Dalai Lama considers this text to be THE source for developing altruism in your character and the “Spirit of Awakening.” It is also said that His Holiness the Dalai Lama recites this prayer every morning as part of his waking rituals. \n  \nBodhisattva Prayer for Humanity \nMay I be a guard for those who need protection \nA guide for those on the path \nA boat\, a raft\, a bridge for those who wish to cross the flood \nMay I be a lamp in the darkness \nA resting place for the weary \nA healing medicine for all who are sick \nA vase of plenty\, a tree of miracles \nAnd for the boundless multitudes of living beings \nMay I bring sustenance and awakening \nEnduring like the earth and sky \nUntil all beings are freed from sorrow \nAnd all are awakened. \n  \nWhat a beautiful prayer to start a new day! A Bodhisattva is a person who has attained Enlightenment\, but who postpones Nirvana in order to help others to attain Enlightenment.  \n  \nThe bodhisattva ideal: \n  \nThe teachings of Buddhism are about your life\, about being the person you are. The practices of Buddhism are about being willing to be intimate with yourself\, with your idiosyncrasies. So when we talk about compassion and the ideal of the bodhisattva\, we are talking about how we as ordinary people—with this body\, this mind\, this life\, these problems—can find generosity\, effort\, and wisdom right here and now. We realize that they are always available. \nBodhisattvas are beings who are dedicated to the universal awakening\, or enlightenment\, of everyone. They exist as guides and providers of relief to suffering beings. They are models who exemplify lives dedicated to eradicating suffering in the world. Bodhisattvas can be awesome in their power\, radiance\, and wisdom\, and they can be as ordinary as your next-door neighbor. Bodhisattvas appear wherever they can be most helpful. Being a bodhisattva is especially about being an adult – a playful\, compassionate\, creative adult.  \nJohnny embodies the life of a bodhisattva.  I think there are others in the dialogue group that we may view this way. \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n  \n[Leaving aside questions of nirvana and enlightenment\, in my view\, anyone who sincerely desires to love all people\, and “all creatures great and small” is in tune with the bodhisattva ideal. Maybe a bodhisattva is nothing more or less than a kind person. JS] \n* \n  \n[Howard is doing an online study course with Nancy Yeilding and other friends on Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras. JS] \n  \nI just sent in my assignment for Nancy Yeilding’s class and I thought maybe with a little modification it could be my contribution to the meditation letter. \n  \nSutra II:43 \n  \nPerfection of the body and sense organs through destruction of impurity by self-purification. \n  \nThe deepest inquiry of yoga was expressed by Ramana Maharshi as\, “Who am I?”  \nWhen I say “my body” or “my mind” there is a presumption of separation. There is “I” and there is “my body” and the two are at odds with each other. “I” want to “control my body” or “I” want to “control my mind” but who is this “I” who thinks it can chop pieces off of the whole and then control them? \nThe body is not some dog that has to be beaten into submission. But neither is it some dog that has to be well fed and trained. It is the very matrix of my being. It is the finest intelligence\, awareness\, the consequence of a billion years of evolution. It perceives the world and it simultaneously creates the world. There is no brain without the body…and no heart\, either. \nIn Buddhism they say the first prerequisite for enlightenment is a human birth.  \nThere’s a famous Zen story in which a person brags that his master can walk on water. Another student says\, “My teacher can also perform miracles. When he is tired he sleeps; when he is hungry he eats.” To me this story has infinite implications and ramifications.  \nWhat is purity?—what is purification? Meister Eckhart said\, “To be pure is to have no thoughts.” \nHow to have no thoughts? Listen\, listen\, listen.  \nI feel that “tapas”—purification—is listening\, with all the connotations of that beautiful word. When I am listening\, there is no division. If I am listening and the voice of division arises\, it is just another sound like the song of the bird or the beep beep beep of the truck backing up…it has no more “authority” than that.  \nIf I listen\, I can sleep when I am tired and eat when I am hungry. \n  \n—Howard Thoresen \n* \n  \nHere’s a recent one: \n  \n                     Radical Justice  \n  \nMy dream displayed two words: radical justice. \nNo scene\, no story\, just those syllables delivered \nto a man\, American\, in the age of gizmos\, of radical \ninjustice careening toward catastrophe. So my outer life  \nsays to my inner life\, What do you mean? Are you saying  \nGive back the Western Hemisphere to First People here? \nAre you demanding Deep reparations for slavery? \nDo you specify The rich divest utterly? Do you say  \nRadical kindness to all creatures of the Earth?  \n  \nIf these\, they are far beyond my power\, yes? Well\, \nno. For if I choose to be a citizen of justice\, every act  \nwill question: What is best for every one and all? \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nIn meditation I was made aware of the fact that I have forgotten to smile…for quite a long time. In fact\, I have been unable (chosen not) to read\, think about\, write about\, many things. I have been unwilling to communicate in many ways\, including with myself\, or the larger consciousness. I feel a failure (no lectures\, please). Realizing that I had stopped taking my “smiling medicine\,” I became aware of a song I wrote as part of a song writing challenge here at DRCI a while back. I share the lyrics despite the fact that I believe that song lyrics often don’t translate well to silent poetry. So\, if any of you are “anti-rhymers”—read no further. Rhyme facilitates meter\, which combines in powerful ways with melody & harmony\, in my not so humble opinion. Maybe sometime I will be able to share this in its entirety\, it is the best advice I can offer myself & others. Thank you so much for The Open Road in both forms\, much anticipated\, highly appreciated. \n  \nLearning To Smile \n  \nWithout a smile\, I walk a mile \nSmilin’ just not my style \nI miss my friends\, I miss my wife \nI miss my outside life \n  \nBut there’s beauty to see \nAir to breathe \nThoughts to think and hear and be \n  \nA smile overcomes all grief and pain \nIt takes me home again \nSo I force a smile\, walk that mile \nSmilin’ might become my style \n  \nBecause there’s beauty to see \nAir to breathe \nThoughts to think and hear and be \n  \nSo\, check out this smile\, it’ll be here a while \nIt helps me through this trial \nMy spirit lifts\, the smile grips \nMy mood and won’t let go \n  \nSo there’s beauty to see \nAir to breathe \nThoughts to think and hear and be \n  \nI’m alive\, I’m headed home \nWhen I smile I’m free \n  \n—T. String Clements \n© 2019 \n* \n  \nI had to smile when I read the Feb 15\, 2021 Open Road M & M dialogue filled with many intrigues. In particular\, and most notably to me\, the 3rd to the last line in the poem by Kim Stafford\, which says: “My greatest gift for you is the space between words.” The reason this stood out to me is that I recently was reading a book titled Forbidden Science by Douglas Kenyon\, which is a collection of articles\, one of which is titled “Altered States” by Patrick Marsolek. In this is a reference to an experiment by… \n  \n“…Dr. Les Fehmi…a psychologist and neurofeedback researcher from Princeton\, also studying the value of subjective experience\, as well as what we know about the physical mechanisms of the brain. He promotes an open focus state of awareness signified by synchronous alpha frequencies in the brain. He first experienced these alpha frequencies for himself when he tried and failed. ‘At the moment of surrender I experienced a deep and profound feeling of disappointment. Fortunately\, I surrendered while still connected to my EEG and while still receiving feedback. It was surprising to observe that I now produced five times the amount of alpha than before the act of surrendering.’ After learning how to open his focus and create the alpha waves\, he ‘felt more open\, lighter\, freer\, more energetic and spontaneous. A broader perspective ensued\, which allowed me to experience a more whole and subtle understanding. As the letting go unfolded\, I felt more intimate with sensory experience\, more intuitive….’ \n“Fehmi found that imagining space was one of the ways to force the brain to stop grasping and move into open focus. The state is experienced as ‘a vast three-dimensional space\, nothingness\, absence\, silence\, and timelessness. The scope of our attention is not only expanded\, but is experienced with greater immersion. Thus\, the ground of our experience is reified\, realized as a more pronounced sense of presence\, a centered and unified awareness\, an identity with a vast quality-less awareness in which all objects of sensation float\, as myself.’ This sounds surprisingly similar to meditators’ reports when they quieted the orientation area in their brains. You can get a taste of open focus now\, if you want. As you read\, become aware of he space in between the letters on the page while you are attending to the words and the meaning of the words. Can you also be aware of the space between you and the paper? At the same time\, is it also possible to be aware of the sounds around you? Let all of that stay with you as you attend to the words and to the meanings of the words you read.” \n  \nWhen I read Kim’s words\, this immediately came to mind. I’d also like to include the next two paragraphs of this for you: \n  \n“Fehmi believes that the way we pay attention is important. If someone is always in narrow objective focus\, he will start to experience stress\, regardless of the content of his attention. Fehmi was chronically in narrow focus; that is why he experienced such a profound breakthrough. He finally gave up and went into the open focus state. Consideration of our society’s chronic narrow focus may help us to explain both rampant drug use and fascination with meditation and ecstatic spiritual states. These methods help us to alleviate the tension of remaining chronically narrow focused in our consensus trance. \n“The relief that comes with altering our attention and our consciousness is more than just feeling good. Fehmi’s open focus\, hypnotic trances\, and other ecstatic states have been shown to bring about the remission of many stress-related symptoms\, chronic pain\, insomnia\, even eye and skin disorders. People who have been the most narrow focused may experience the most profound results. With practice most people can experience lasting changes.” \n  \nI can personally attest that the more I try this idea of “space between” things\, the more my body seems to relax. \n  \n–Joseph Opyd \n* \n  \nAches and Tensions #337 \n  \n“When I breathe in\, I generate the energy of mindfulness. With this energy\,  I recognize my body’s aches and tensions. I begin to embrace my body tenderly\, and allow any tension to be released. Many of us accumulate a lot of tension and pressure in our bodies\, working them too hard. It’s time to come home to our body. This is possible anytime\, anywhere\, whether we are sitting\, lying\, standing or walking.” \nAches and tensions I have been intimately familiar with the past two weeks – actually for about a year before that. My feet have had so much wear and tear from years of sports that I was hobbling in pain\, no matter what the shoes I wore. After complicated foot surgery two weeks ago – pins\, screws\, splints\, twenty stitches looking like black spider legs – I know the aches and pains of slow recovery. \nI have returned to the practice of sitting and breathing\, thirty minutes each day\, this past year. Usually it takes me a little while to let go. Breathe in – I wonder how Harry and Meghan are feeling. Breathe out – Will this fingernail ever stop splitting? In – Should I divide those peonies now or wait until fall?  Out – Those dang voter suppression bills are gonna sink us if they all pass…  Finally the breath and the body prevail and the mind goes. But not lately. \nThe severe pain of the foot surgery has caused extreme tension in my body. I can hardly walk (nor should I)\, and my breathing is shallow and rapid. I resumed sitting about five days after surgery. Not easy. Aches\, pain\, tension create a mind disjointed from the body\, let me tell you. I’m sure everyone has experienced this (or is experiencing it now) and can remember how pain can suck you dry.   The first three days of sitting were hopeless. I just sat and went through the motions\, waiting for something to change. And then I read this ‘everyday wisdom\,’ #337. There it was: “It’s time to come home to our body.”  And then\, that is just what happened. Breathing in\, breathing out – this body is miraculous. This breath is miraculous. And since then\, when I sit\, my body smiles and relaxes. We are back together —mind\, body\, breath.  And where did that pain go\, anyway? \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nOne of my favorite writers has been Thomas Merton. One example of why: \n  \nWhat I wear is pants. \nWhat I do is live. \nHow I pray is breathe. \nWho said Zen? \n Wash out your mouth if you said Zen. \nIf you see a meditation going by\, shoot it. \nWho said “Love?” \nLove is in the movies. \nThe spiritual life is something people worry about when they are so busy with something else they think they ought to be spiritual. \nSpiritual life is guilt. \nUp here in the woods is seen the New Testament: \nthat is to say\, \nthe wind comes through the trees and you breathe it. \n  \n—from the memoir “Day of a Stranger\,” published in the Hudson Review\, Summer 1967 \n  \nIn this ground-breaking essay\, Merton allows himself to speak in the unexpurgated voice of the self he was excavating to be most true. You can read the entire essay here: \n  \nhttps://hudsonreview.com/1967/07/day-of-a-stranger/ \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nThis is for the meditation & mindfulness newsletter. It’s out of my heart\, not “Your True Home.” \n  \nMany times in my life I would sit and deeply think to myself. This is before I knew what it was to meditate. Many times I have imagined my self being a massive stone out in the sea. With wave after crushing wave breaking on me. The wave represented all of the whips and scorns of life. Nothing could ever break me. \n  \nThe inevitability is that the erosion\, pressure & time have slowly taken their toll on me. With a full and happy heart I will turn to sand on an eternal beach inside the hourglass of time. \n  \nBlessings\, \nPeace\, \nJoy\, \nUnconditionally \nLove \nAll \nThere is in Life \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nReflections On Meditation \n  \nGreetings to this worthy sangha. My name is Peter Oppenheimer. I’m an old crony of Johnny Stallings. I think it was 1973. Johnny and I were spending days\, and some nights\, together in a hospital in South India\, attending to our teacher’s teacher\, a well-known guru thereabouts.   \n At one point\, when I think\, only Johnny and I were in the room\, Guru motioned from his bed for me to come near. He said\, “I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be around. Do you want to ask me anything?”   \nI was taken aback. Daily I had countless questions\, but in the calming aura of his presence and under the spotlight of his gaze\, I couldn’t immediately think of one. “Oh yeah\,” I thought and asked\, “Can you teach me how to meditate?” His response was quickly made and quickly over\, “Meditate on the world without you in it.” Boom.  That was/is both a tall order and has become a lifelong aspirational practice of mine. \nOddly enough\, years later when I told my own guru about what his guru had suggested to me as how to meditate\, he said\, “That’s funny. Guru told me the opposite.  He told me to meditate on the room that I was in as being all inside and having no outside.”   \nAnd there’s another secret of meditation. There can be many ways to meditate\, but the paths all converge at the same goal. What is that goal?    \nAn inner quietude\, an inner fortitude\, an inner gratitude\, an inner clarity\, an inner affection\, an affection both that we have tasted from others and from Nature\, and an affection that we have within us as a treasure to share with others. This manifests as universal good will. These are all primary indicators of successful meditation. \nIf that’s the goal\, then how do we get there? \nDuring the ensuing 5 decades after those words of the guru\, I have studied and practiced several types or schools of seated-meditation\, such as the one taught by Johnny’s and my guru\, several practices taught by different Indian schools of yoga\, and zazen\, the practice of Zen Buddhist meditation.   \nThere’s been a through-line in all of these approaches to meditation. They all start from and aim at maintaining a state of mindfulness\, a “Be Here Now” approach to mental self-discipline.  Another common thread I’ve noticed is using one’s breath to help focus on the here and now. Just notice\, your breath. Be with it\, and in essence become your breath. In and out. In and out. Calmly. Mindfully. Affectionately. It is the energy from your breath that keeps your heart beating and the blood circulating. Be mindful of that going on.  Part of mindfulness or “being here now” includes body awareness – pains and pleasures\, strains and pressures. How fully can you be with your breath and your body?  If you can be simply present for what’s going on within you\, the chances are good that you will be able to be present and available to what arises in the world around you. \nSitting meditation is not for everyone.  Sometimes in the case of trauma survivors\, sitting and observing one’s thoughts can be too triggering.  The state and fruits of “Meditation\,” as discussed above\, can be attained not only through sitting\, but also if done whole-heartedly through\, among others things – walking\, running\, dancing\, drawing\, singing\, cooking\, conversing\, writing\, communing with nature\, laughing\, sharing affection\, or simply taking a moment to feel comfortable in one’s own skin and feel open to what arises. Then the practice becomes to be prepared to treat everything which arises (within and without) with generosity\, uprightness\, patience\, enthusiasm\, concentration\, and  wisdom. \nFinally\, coming back to my Grandguru’s instruction to “meditate on the world without you in it\,” years later a Zen teacher of mine\, with whom I sat periods of zazen\, described meditation as “cutting the storyline of your own inner narrative.”  My and Johnny’s Guru\, Nitya\, sometimes described meditation as shifting one’s identity from the ego-center to the spirit-center. The ego is our self with a small “s” and revolves around uniqueness\, what separates us from others. Whereas the spirit-center is our Self with a large “S” and revolves around that inner spirit which ignites and unites us. When we forget or transcend our smaller self and slip into a flow state\, there arises within us an identity or belongingness with the world around us. It’s a state of both peacefulness and vibrance. All of this is what I have come to know as a meditative state. \nI invite and welcome any additions\, corrections\, questions or comments from the sangha. I will be happy to respond and continue the conversation. With Love and Best Wishes to all…… \n  \n—Peter Oppenheimer \n* \n  \n[Peter is inviting people to have a dialogue with him. Feel free to use the monthly Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue as a place to have conversation\, and respond to what others have written. If people inside or outside the prison walls want to be pen pals with others in this “sangha\,” let me know. I can help with that. JS] URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-3-15-21/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/0.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210328 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210411 DTSTAMP:20260502T014603 CREATED:20210317T170432Z LAST-MODIFIED:20210329T041217Z UID:1861-1616889600-1618099199@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: STORY POEMS 3/28 DESCRIPTION:  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! \n  \nWe had a lovely gathering on Sunday\, March 28th. Our theme was STORY POEMS. We talked about poems we remembered from our childhood–nursery rhymes and the words to songs. \nJude Russell read “Jabberwocky” by Lewis Carroll. \nCharles Erickson sang “Woverton Mountain” for us. \nI took a whack at Woody Guthrie’s song: “Pretty Boy Floyd the Outlaw.” \nKatie Radditz told us about Father Fox’s Pennyrhymes by Clyde and Wendy Watson and she read a couple of them for us. \nKim Stafford was unable to join us\, but he sent this beautiful video he made\, “I’ll Do Anything”: \n  \n \n  \n  \nMartha Ragland read “Little Breeches” by Colonel John Hay that she found in the book Story Poems\, edited by Louis Untermeyer. \nThat reminded me of another 19th Century classic\, “The Green Eye of the Yellow God\,” by J. Milton Hayes\, which I read. I also read the old Scottish Ballad “Edward\, Edward.” \nKatie read “The Song of Wandering Aengus” by W. B. Yeats. \nDave Duncan told us that his brother Jack died yesterday\, and read this poem for us by Emily Dickinson: \n  \nI heard a Fly buzz – when I died – \nThe Stillness in the Room \nWas like the Stillness in the Air – \nBetween the Heaves of Storm – \n  \nThe Eyes around – had wrung them dry – \nAnd Breaths were gathering firm \nFor that Last Onset – when the King \nBe witnessed – in the Room – \n  \nI willed my Keepsakes – Signed away \nWhat portion of me be \nAssignable – and then it was \nThere interposed a Fly – \n  \nWith Blue – uncertain stumbling Buzz – \nBetween the light – and me – \nAnd then the Windows failed – and then \nI could not see to see – \n* \n  \nWe ended our gathering by listening to a song that Dave loves: “Father and Son” by Yusuf Cat Stevens. \nHere’s a link: \n  \n \n  \nLook for more poems in the upcoming (April 1st) issue of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding. It will be published on this website. \n  \npeace\, love & poetry \n  \nJohnny \n  \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-story-poems-3-28/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Unknown-3.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210401 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210415 DTSTAMP:20260502T014603 CREATED:20210401T153639Z LAST-MODIFIED:20210401T154228Z UID:1993-1617235200-1618444799@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding 4/1/21 DESCRIPTION:The Aged Aged man\, illustration by John Tenniel (see the last poem) \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nApril 1\, 2021 \n  \nJerry Smith sent this inspiring prose poem: \n  \nAnd the people stayed home. And read books\, and listened\, and rested\, and exercised\, and made art\, and played games\, and learned new ways of being\, and were still. And listened more deeply. Some meditated\, some prayed\, some danced. Some met their shadows. And the people began to think differently. \n  \nAnd the people healed. And\, in the absence of people living in ignorant\, dangerous\, mindless\, and heartless ways\, the earth began to heal. \n  \nAnd when the danger passed\, and the people joined together again\, they grieved their losses\, and made new choices\, and dreamed new images\, and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully\, as they had been healed. \n  \n—Kitty O’Meara \n* \n  \nRocky sent this poem just in time for this issue: \n  \n     Recently\, after 45 years on earth\, \nmy whole being has been touched by love. \n     A lifetime of issues kept me from \nfeeling the truth of this most powerful emotion. \n     For the first good while I was uncertain \n& thought I was having heart problems. \n     In fact that is what happens to the \nheart when filled with arrows of love. \n     Until now\, I’ve never cried for love; \nthese tears are from the deepest pain. \n     My love is here\, free & it is real; \nit is unselfish\, it is hunting for the same. \n     The capability & potency & strength \nof the Love in me feels like lightning in my heart. \n     This is what will shatter the walls \nof this prison & cast me into the stars. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nOn Sunday\, March 28th\, for our Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering we read\, recited and sang “Story Poems” to each other. Kim Stafford sent a link to a video\, along with these words: \n  \n“here’s a film I made a few years back…based on a ballad I wrote 20 years ago…about an encounter over 40 years ago…” \n  \nhttps://vimeo.com/259870242 \n  \nHe also sent a text version for this issue of “peace\, love\, happiness & understanding\,” for our friends in prison who can’t watch the video. The italicized parts are sung: \n  \nI’ll Do Anything\, Watch Me Try \n  \nI was driving south along Interstate 5 in the Spring\, forty years ago\, and I picked up a hitchhiker with bandages on both hands. \n     “Is this a Mailbu?” he said\, climbing into my car. “My name’s Dan. I used to have a Malibu\, but she burned.” \n     “We was driving along\,” he said\, “me and Ruth and the boys—looking for work\, and the damn car catches on fire…” He told his whole sad story… \n  \nIt ain’t all honey & roses down in Portland\, \nwhen you got no work and hungry children\, \nDriving along down Burnside in the evening\, \nlook in every doorway for a sign. \n  \nI’ll do anything\, watch me try: \nfix your engine\, mend your road\, \nCrack my fingers\, break my back \non any load you lead me to. \n  \nWhen we came to a little town\, he said to let him out on Main Street. I shook Dan’s hand\, gently so as not to hurt the burn\, and then I gave him my coat\, and all the money I had on me. He set off down the street\, and I got in the car and drove south. \n  \nThere’s a place a few miles farther on\, where I sat by the river under a cottonwood with my guitar\, and Dan’s story turned into a song. \n  \nThe kids were sleeping in the back seat\, \nSoftly talking in their way. \nAny more they’re never sure\, \nWhen it’s night\, and when it’s day… \n  \nThen somehow a fire broke out\, \nin the backseat\, on the floor— \nI grabbed John\, and Ruth grabbed Daniel\, \nclosed my eyes and out the door. \n  \nI left the kids with my brother out in Gresham. \nRuth went wandering on her own. \nI got to find a job and make some dollars\, \nput it all together again. \n  \nWhen I got where I was going\, I told my friends about Dan\, and the burning car\, and one of them said\, “You didn’t give him any money\, did you? That’s a scam!” They made me feel small\, and a fool. But then\, heading north\, I stopped under the tree again\, and made a new verse about my friends. \n  \nNow the man who told that story was a drifter \nI picked up walking down Interstate 5. \nI gave him money and I told my friends— \nThey laughed and said\, “You got skinned alive!” \n  \nNo song should end without some kind of mercy. \nNo one’s life should be like this song. \nBut mine has been\, and you who listen\, \nbless your luck. So long. \n  \nWhat’s it like to be alone on the road? What’s it like to have a family\, a car\, a plan—and then to lose it all? And for my friends—what’s it like to guard your heart with denial\, so you can protect yourself from another person’s pain? \n  \nI was a student then\, writing a dissertation. I pretty much lived in the library. But Dan’s witness made me a singer instead. And I needed his pluck\, a few years later\, when my own family fell apart\, and I wandered alone. \n  \nI hope the story he told was but a fable\, \nI hope he spent that money on wine. \nI hope that Ruth is still with the family. \nI hope their Chevy is running fine. \n  \nFor every story you hear that’s a lie\, \nthere’s a hundred hard and true. \nI’ll give my money again to the stranger\, \nshare the money as I pass through. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n*  \n  \nHere are some great story poems. Read them aloud to someone!: \n  \nAbou Ben Adhem \n  \nAbou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) \nAwoke one night from a deep dream of peace\, \nAnd saw\, within the moonlight in his room\, \nMaking it rich\, and like a lily in bloom\, \nAn angel writing in a book of gold:— \nExceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold\, \nAnd to the presence in the room he said\, \n“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head\, \nAnd with a look made of all sweet accord\, \nAnswered\, “The names of those who love the Lord.” \n“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay\, not so\,” \nReplied the angel. Abou spoke more low\, \nBut cheerly still; and said\, “I pray thee\, then\, \nWrite me as one that loves his fellow men.” \n  \nThe angel wrote\, and vanished. The next night \nIt came again with a great wakening light\, \nAnd showed the names whom love of God had blest\, \nAnd lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest. \n  \n—Leigh Hunt  (1784-1859) \n* \n  \nNirvana \n  \nnot much chance\, \ncompletely cut loose from \npurpose\, \nhe was a young man \nriding a bus \nthrough North Carolina \non the way to somewhere \nand it began to snow \nand the bus stopped \nat a little café \nin the hills \nand the passengers  \nentered. \nhe sat at the counter \nwith the others\, \nhe ordered and the \nfood arrived. \nthe meal was \nparticularly \ngood \nand the \ncoffee. \nthe waitress was \nunlike the women \nhe had \nknown. \nshe was unaffected\, \nthere was a natural  \nhumor which came \nfrom her. \nthe fry cook said \ncrazy things. \nthe dishwasher\, \nin back\, \nlaughed\, a good \nclean \npleasant \nlaugh. \nthe young man watched \nthe snow through the \nwindows. \nhe wanted to stay \nin that café \nforever. \nthe curious feeling \nswam through him \nthat everything \nwas \nbeautiful \nthere\, \nthat it would always \nstay beautiful \nthere. \nthen the bus driver \ntold the passengers \nthat it was time \nto board. \nthe young man \nthought\, I’ll just sit \nhere\, I’ll just stay \nhere. \nbut then \nhe rose and followed \nthe others into the \nbus. \nhe found his seat \nand looked at the café \nthrough the bus \nwindow. \nthen the bus moved \noff\, down a curve\, \ndownward\, out of \nthe hills. \nthe young man \nlooked straight \nforward. \nhe heard the other \npassengers \nspeaking \nof other things\, \nor they were \nreading \nor \nattempting to \nsleep. \nthey had not \nnoticed \nthe \nmagic. \nthe young man \nput his head to \none side\, \nclosed his \neyes\, \npretended to \nsleep. \nthere was nothing \nelse to do- \njust listen to the \nsound of the \nengine\, \nthe sound of the \ntires \nin the \nsnow. \n  \n—Charles Bukowski  (1920-1994) \n* \n  \nThe Three Hermits \n  \nThree old hermits took the air  \nBy a cold and desolate sea\,  \nFirst was muttering a prayer\,  \nSecond rummaged for a flea;  \nOn a windy stone\, the third\,  \nGiddy with his hundredth year\,  \nSang unnoticed like a bird:  \n‘Though the Door of Death is near  \nAnd what waits behind the door\,  \nThree times in a single day  \nI\, though upright on the shore\,  \nFall asleep when I should pray.’  \nSo the first\, but now the second:  \n‘We’re but given what we have eamed  \nWhen all thoughts and deeds are reckoned\,  \nSo it’s plain to be discerned  \nThat the shades of holy men  \nWho have failed\, being weak of will\,  \nPass the Door of Birth again\,  \nAnd are plagued by crowds\, until  \nThey’ve the passion to escape.’  \nMoaned the other\, ‘They are thrown  \nInto some most fearful shape.’  \nBut the second mocked his moan:  \n‘They are not changed to anything\,  \nHaving loved God once\, but maybe  \nTo a poet or a king  \nOr a witty lovely lady.’  \nWhile he’d rummaged rags and hair\,  \nCaught and cracked his flea\, the third\,  \nGiddy with his hundredth year\,  \nSang unnoticed like a bird. \n  \n—William Butler Yeats  (1865-1939) \n*            \n  \nThree Angels \n  \nThree angels up above the street \nEach one playing a horn \nDressed in green robes with wings that stick out \nThey’ve been there since Christmas morn \nThe wildest cat from Montana passes by in a flash \nThen a lady in a bright orange dress \nOne U-Haul trailer\, a truck with no wheels \nThe Tenth Avenue bus going west \nThe dogs and pigeons fly up and they flutter around \nA man with a badge skips by \nThree fellas crawlin’ on their way back to work \nNobody stops to ask why \nThe bakery truck stops outside of that fence \nWhere the angels stand high on their poles \nThe driver peeks out\, trying to find one face \nIn this concrete world full of souls \nThe angels play on their horns all day \nThe whole earth in progression seems to pass by \nBut does anyone hear the music they play \nDoes anyone even try? \n  \n—Bob Dylan \n* \n  \nA Story That Could Be True \n  \nIf you were exchanged in the cradle and \nyour real mother died \nwithout ever telling the story \nthen no one knows your name\, \nand somewhere in the world \nyour father is lost and needs you \nbut you are far away. \n  \nHe can never find \nhow true you are\, how ready. \nWhen the great wind comes \nand the robberies of the rain \nyou stand on the corner shivering. \nThe people who go by— \nyou wonder at their calm. \n  \nThey miss the whisper that runs \nany day in your mind\, \n“Who are you really\, wanderer?”— \nand the answer you have to give \nno matter how dark and cold \nthe world around you is: \n“Maybe I’m a king.” \n  \n—William Stafford  (1914-1993) \n* \n  \nThe Aged Aged Man \n  \nI’ll tell thee everything I can; \n     There’s little to relate\, \nI saw an aged\, aged man\, \n     A-sitting on a gate. \n“Who are you\, aged man?” I said. \n     “And how is it you live?” \nAnd his answer trickled through my head \n     Like water through a sieve. \n  \nHe said\, “I look for butterflies \n     That sleep among the wheat; \nI make them into mutton-pies\, \n     And sell them in the street. \nI sell them unto men\,” he said\, \n     “Who sail on stormy seas; \nAnd that’s the way I get my bread– \n     A trifle\, if you please.” \n  \nBut I was thinking of a plan \n     To dye one’s whiskers green\, \nAnd always use so large a fan \n     That they could not be seen. \nSo\, having no reply to give \n     To what the old man said\, \nI cried\, “Come\, tell me how you live!” \n     And thumped him on the head. \n  \nHis accents mild took up the tale; \n     He said\, “I go my ways\, \nAnd when I find a mountain-rill\, \n     I set it in a blaze; \nAnd thence they make a stuff they call \n     Rowland’s Macassar Oil– \nYet twopence-halfpenny is all \n     They give me for my toil.” \n  \nBut I was thinking of a way \n     To feed one’s self on batter\, \nAnd so go on from day to day \n     Getting a little fatter. \nI shook him well from side to side\, \n     Until his face was blue\, \n“Come\, tell me how you live\,” I cried\, \n     “And what it is you do!” \n  \nHe said\, “I hunt for haddocks’ eyes \n     Among the heather bright\, \nAnd work them into waistcoat-buttons \n     In the silent night. \nAnd these I do not sell for gold \n     Or coin of silvery shine\, \nBut for a copper halfpenny\, \n     And that will purchase nine. \n  \n“I sometimes dig for buttered rolls\, \n     Or set limed twigs for crabs; \nI sometimes search the grassy knolls \n     For wheels of hansom-cabs. \nAnd that’s the way” (he gave a wink) \n     “By which I get my wealth– \nAnd very gladly will I drink \n     Your honor’s noble health.” \n  \nI heard him then\, for I had just \n     Completed my design \nTo keep the Menai bridge from rust \n     By boiling it in wine. \nI thanked him much for telling me \n     The way he got his wealth\, \nBut chiefly for his wish that he \n     Might drink my noble health. \n  \nAnd now\, if e’er by chance I put \n     My fingers into glue\, \nOr madly squeeze a right-hand foot \n     Into a left-hand shoe\, \nOr if I drop upon my toe \n     A very heavy weight\, \nI weep\, for it reminds me so \nOf that old man I used to know– \nWhose look was mild\, whose speech was slow\, \nWhose hair was whiter than the snow\, \nWhose face was very like a crow\, \nWith eyes\, like cinders\, all aglow\, \nWho seemed distracted with his woe\, \nWho rocked his body to and fro\, \nAnd muttered mumblingly and low\, \nAs if his mouth were full of dough\, \nWho snorted like a buffalo– \nThat summer evening long ago\, \nA-sitting on a gate. \n  \n—Lewis Carroll  (1832-1898) URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-4-1-21/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/Unknown-9.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210411 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210425 DTSTAMP:20260502T014603 CREATED:20210401T180606Z LAST-MODIFIED:20210416T181836Z UID:2001-1618099200-1619308799@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Mystical Poetry & Prose 4/11 - 4/24/21 DESCRIPTION:Thomas Traherne (1636-1674) \n  \n  \nSongs are thoughts\, sung out with the breath when people are moved by great forces and ordinary speech no longer suffices. Man is moved just like the ice floe sailing here and there in the current. His thoughts are driven by a flowing force when he feels joy\, when he feels fear\, when he feels sorrow. Thoughts can wash over him like a flood\, making his breath come in gasps and his heart throb. Something like an abatement in the weather will keep him thawed up. And then it will happen that we\, who always think we are small\, will feel still smaller. And we will fear to use words. But it will happen that the words we need will come of themselves. When the words we want to use shoot up of themselves–we get a new song. \n  \n–Orpingalik\,  Netsilik Inuit \n  \nOn Sunday\, April 11th\, our theme was MYSTIC POETRY & PROSE from Animist\, Polytheist\, Hindu\, Taoist\, Buddhist\, Jewish\, Christian & Muslim mystics. \n  \nTodd Oleson read a poem by Emily Dickinson and two poems by Lawrence Ferlinghetti\, Jude Russell read poems by Rilke\, Roethke & Blake. Dave Duncan read a poem by Sylvia Plath\, which reminded me of a passage from Hamlet. Martha Ragland read the opening of Tagore’s Gitanjali. Nick Eldredge read the lyrics to Into the Mystic by Van Morrison. I read poems by Staffords William & Kim\, and Waxwings by Robert Francis. Here are some the poems:  \n  \nGod made a little Gentian – \nIt tried – to be a Rose – \nAnd failed – and all the Summer laughed – \nBut just before the Snows \n  \nThere rose a Purple Creature – \nThat ravished all the Hill – \nAnd Summer hid her Forehead – \nAnd Mockery – was still – \n  \nThe Frosts were her condition – \nThe Tyrian would not come \nUntil the North – invoke it – \nCreator – Shall I – bloom? \n  \n–Emily Dickinson  (1830-1886) \n* \n  \nA Better Resurrection \n  \nI have no wit\, I have no words\, no tears; \nMy heart within me like a stone \nIs numbed too much for hopes or fears; \nLook right\, look left\, I dwell alone; \nA lift mine eyes\, but dimmed with grief \nNo everlasting hills I see; \nMy life is like the falling leaf; \nJesus\, quicken me. \n  \n–Sylvia Plath \n* \n  \nHamlet.  I have of late\, but wherefore I know not\, lost all my mirth\, foregone all custom of exercises\, and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promontory\, this most excellent canopy\, the air\, look you\, this brave o’erhanging firmament\, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire—why it appears nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors.  What a piece of work is a man\, how noble in reason\, how infinite in faculties\, in form and moving how express and admirable\, in action how like an angel\, in apprehension how like a god\, the beauty of the world\, the paragon of animals—and yet\, to me\, what is this quintessence of dust?  Man delights not me.  No\, nor woman\, neither.  \n  \n–Will Shakespeare \n* \n  \n“Ich lebe mein Leben in wachsenden Ringen” \n  \n“I live my life in widening circles  \nthat reach out across the world. \nI may not complete this last one \nbut I give myself to it. \n  \nI circle around God\, around the primordial tower. \nI’ve been circling for thousands of years \nand I still don’t know: am I a falcon\, \na storm\, or a great song?” \n* \n  \n“Alles wird wieder gross sein und gewaltig” \n  \n“All will come again into its strength: \nthe fields undivided\, the waters undammed\, \nthe trees towering and the walls built low\, \nAnd in the valleys\, people as strong \nand varied as the land. \n  \nAnd no churches where God \nis imprisoned and lamented \nlike a trapped and wounded animal. \nThe houses welcoming all who knock \nand a sense of boundless offering \nin all relations\, amd in you and me. \n  \nNo yearning for an afterlife\, no looking beyond\, \nno belittling of death\, \nbut only longing for what belongs to us \nand serving earth\, lest we remain unused.” \n  \n(I have to add one more here\, read and absorbed shortly after I had experienced my life changing ‘mystical experience\,’ and was still in the deepest throes of LOVE) (I still love it) (Jude) \n  \n”Losch mir die Augen aus; ich kann dich sehen” \n  \n“Extinguish my eyes\, I’ll go on seeing you\, \nSeal my ears\, I’ll go on hearing you\, \nAnd without feet I can make my way to you\, \nwithout a mouth I can swear your name. \n  \nBreak off my arms\, I’ll take hold of you \nwith my heart as a hand\, \nStop my heart\, and my brain will  start to beat\, \nAnd if you consume my brain with fire\, \nI’ll feel you burn in every drop of my blood.” \n  \nRilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God\, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy\,  1996 \n* \n  \nGitanjali \n  \nI \nThou hast made me endless\, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again\, and fillest it ever with fresh life. \nThis little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales\, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. \nAt the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable. \nThy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass\, and still thou poorest\, and still there is room to fill. \n  \n–Rabrindranath Tagore \n* \n  \nInto the Mystic \n  \nWe were born before the wind \nAlso younger than the sun \nEre the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic \nHark\, now hear the sailors cry \nSmell the sea and feel the sky \nLet your soul and spirit fly into the mystic \n  \nAnd when that fog horn blows I will be coming home \nAnd when the fog horn blows I want to hear it \nI don’t have to fear it \n  \nAnd I want to rock your gypsy soul \nJust like way back in the days of old \nAnd magnificently we will flow into the mystic \n  \nWhen that fog horn blows you know I will be coming home \nAnd when that fog horn whistle blows I got to hear it \nI don’t have to fear it \n  \nAnd I want to rock your gypsy soul \nJust like way back in the days of old \nAnd together we will flow into the mystic \nCome on girl… \n  \nToo late to stop now…  \n  \n–Van Morrison \n* \n  \nAsk Me \n  \n  \nSome time when the river is ice ask me \nmistakes I have made. Ask me whether \nwhat I have done is my life. Others \nhave come in their slow way into \nmy thought\, and some have tried to help \nor to hurt: ask me what difference \ntheir strongest love or hate has made. \n  \n  \nI will listen to what you say. \nYou and I can turn and look \nat the silent river and wait. We know \nthe current is there\, hidden; and there \nare comings and goings from miles away \nthat hold the stillness exactly before us. \nWhat the river says\, that is what I say. \n  \n  \n–William Stafford  (1914-1993) \n* \n  \nAll My Relations \n  \nI want to thank all my relations \nfor this chance to be on Earth \nin her time of flourishing; to thank \nthe First People of this place\, the \nMultnomah people\, the Clackamas\, \nMolalla\, Tualatin\, and Chinook\, to honor \ntheir sovereignty in long and continuing \nrelation\, still teaching us how we might \nbe here together; to thank my mother and father\, \nmoon and sun\, for setting me forth before \ntheir own passing on; to thank my grandmother \nwho listened to me so eloquently I learned \nto listen to my own heart and mind\, to find \nstories and songs there; to thank my family \nand friends\, and all the citizens and travelers \nwho study and work for deeper kinship \nin this place\, with one another\, and with \nall creatures\, one Earth\, visible\, palpable\, \nfragile\, intricate\, resonant\, in need of our \nbetter stories. I want to thank you \nwho have gathered to receive what I have \ncarried here–in hope that something \nI have may meet something you need\, \nso all our relations may be strengthened \nfor the life we live together. \n  \n–Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nThe Divine Image \n  \nTo Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nAll pray in their distress; \nAnd to these virtues of delight \nReturn their thankfulness. \n  \nFor Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nIs God\, our father dear\, \nAnd Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nIs Man\, his child and care. \n  \nFor Mercy has a human heart\, \nPity a human face\, \nAnd Love\, the human form divine\, \nAnd Peace\, the human dress. \n  \nThen every man\, of every clime\, \nThat prays in his distress\, \nPrays to the human form divine\, \nLove\, Mercy\, Pity\, Peace. \n  \nAnd all must love the human form\, \nIn heathen\, turk\, or jew; \nWhere Mercy\, Love\, & Pity dwell \nThere God is dwelling too. \n  \n–William Blake  (1757-1857) \n* \n  \nIn a Dark Time \n\n\n\n  \nIn a dark time\, the eye begins to see\, \nI meet my shadow in the deepening shade;    \nI hear my echo in the echoing wood— \nA lord of nature weeping to a tree. \nI live between the heron and the wren\,    \nBeasts of the hill and serpents of the den. \n\n  \nWhat’s madness but nobility of soul \nAt odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire!    \nI know the purity of pure despair\, \nMy shadow pinned against a sweating wall.    \nThat place among the rocks—is it a cave\,    \nOr winding path? The edge is what I have. \n\n  \nA steady storm of correspondences! \nA night flowing with birds\, a ragged moon\,    \nAnd in broad day the midnight come again!    \nA man goes far to find out what he is— \nDeath of the self in a long\, tearless night\,    \nAll natural shapes blazing unnatural light. \n\n  \nDark\, dark my light\, and darker my desire.    \nMy soul\, like some heat-maddened summer fly\,    \nKeeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I? \nA fallen man\, I climb out of my fear.    \nThe mind enters itself\, and God the mind\,    \nAnd one is One\, free in the tearing wind. \n\n  \n\n\n–Theodore Roethke  (1908-1963) \n* \n  \n\n\n\n\nConstantly risking absurdity \n                                             and death \n            whenever he performs \n                                        above the heads \n                                                            of his audience \n   the poet like an acrobat \n                                 climbs on rime \n                                          to a high wire of his own making \nand balancing on eyebeams \n                                     above a sea of faces \n             paces his way \n                               to the other side of day \n    performing entrechats \n                               and sleight-of-foot tricks \nand other high theatrics \n                               and all without mistaking \n                     any thing \n                               for what it may not be \n\n       For he’s the super realist \n                                     who must perforce perceive \n                   taut truth \n                                 before the taking of each stance or step \nin his supposed advance \n                                  toward that still higher perch \nwhere Beauty stands and waits \n                                     with gravity \n                                                to start her death-defying leap \n\n      And he \n             a little charleychaplin man \n                                           who may or may not catch \n               her fair eternal form \n                                     spreadeagled in the empty air \n                  of existence \n* \n\n\n  \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n           17\n\nThis life is not a circus where\nthe shy performing dogs of love\n look on\n\nas time flicks out\n its tricky whip\n to race us thru our paces\nYet gay parading floats drift by\n decorated with gorgeous gussies in silk tights\n and attended by moithering monkeys\n make-believe monks\n horny hiawathas\n and baboons astride tame tigers\n with ladies inside\n while googly horns make merrygoround music\n and pantomimic pierrots castrate disaster\n with strange sad laughter\n and gory gorillas toss tender maidens heavenward\n while cakewalkers and carnie hustlers\n all gassed to the gills\n strike playbill poses\n and stagger after every\n wheeling thing\nWhile still around the ring\n lope the misshapen camels of lust\n and all us Emmet Kelley clowns\n always making up imaginary scenes\nwith all our masks for faces\n even eat fake Last Suppers\n at collapsible tables\n and mocking cross ourselves \n in sawdust crosses\n\nAnd yet gobble up at last\n to shrive our circus souls\n the also imaginary\n wafers of grace\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n–Lawrence Ferlinghetti \n* \n  \nWaxwings   \n  \nFour tao philosophers as cedar waxwings \nchat on a February berrybush \nin sun\, and I am one. \n  \nSuch merriment and such sobriety– \nthe small wild fruit on the tall stalk– \nwas this not always my true style? \n  \nAbove an elegance of snow\, beneath \na silk-blue sky a brotherhood of four \nbirds. Can you mistake us? \n  \nTo sun\, to feast\, and to converse \nand all together–for this I have abandoned all my other lives. \n  \n–Robert Francis  (1901-1987) \n* \n  \nIs anyone still reading this? It’s getting pretty long. But not long enough. On April 11th\, we didn’t get around to mystic prose\, but here’s something loving and lovely from Thomas Traherne: \n  \n47  \n  \nWhat life can be more pleasant\, than that which is delighted in itself\, and in all objects; in which also all objects infinitely delight? What life can be more pleasant\, than that which is blessed in all\, and glorious before all? Now this life is the life of Love. For this end therefore did He desire to Love\, that He might be Love. Infinitely delightful to all objects\, infinitely delighted in all\, and infinitely pleased in Himself\, for being infinitely delightful to all\, and delighted in all. All this He attaineth by Love. For Love is the most delightful of all employments. All the objects of Love are delightful to it\, and Love is delightful to all its objects. Well then may Love be the end of loving\, which is so complete. It being a thing so delightful\, that God infinitely rejoiceth in Himself for being Love. And thus you see how God is the end of Himself. He doth what He doth\, that He may be what He is: Wise and glorious and bountiful and blessed in being Perfect Love.  \n  \n  \n48  \n  \nLove is so divine and perfect a thing\, that it is worthy to be the very end and being of the Deity. It is His goodness\, and it is His glory. We therefore so vastly delight in Love\, because all these excellencies and all other whatsoever lie within it. By Loving a Soul does propagate and beget itself. By Loving it does dilate and magnify itself. By Loving it does enlarge and delight itself. By Loving also it delighteth others\, as by Loving it doth honor and enrich itself. But above all by Loving it does attain itself. Love also being the end of Souls\, which are never perfect till they are in act what they are in power. They were made to love\, and are dark and vain and comfortless till they do it. Till they love they are idle\, or mis-employed. Till they love they are desolate; without their objects\, and narrow and little\, and dishonorable: but when they shine by Love upon all objects\, they are accompanied with them and enlightened by them. Till we become therefore all Act as God is\, we can never rest\, nor ever be satisfied.  \n  \n–Thomas Traherne  (1636-1674) \n* \n  \n  \n(In Centuries of Meditations\, Thomas Traherne has just over four hundred meditations. In the “Second Century\,” he goes on an extended meditation of love\, from numbers 39-67. I have included two typical ones.) \n  \nMay all beings be happy. \nMay we live in love. \n  \nJohnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-mystical-poetry-prose-4-11-21/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210415 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210429 DTSTAMP:20260502T014603 CREATED:20210416T160729Z LAST-MODIFIED:20210416T161533Z UID:2098-1618444800-1619654399@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding 4/15/21 DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nApril 15\, 2021 \n  \nAll beings rejoice! A new book of Kim’s poems has just been published by Red Hen Press! Sing! Dance! Make Merry! Get your copy today! Act now! Easy monthly payments! No money down! Makes a great gift for all occasions! With Kim’s permission\, here’s a small sampling from the Treasure Trove: \n  \nPoetry in Prison \n  \nYou’re in\, but the question is: \nwhat’s in you? What story \naching to be told do you hold \nin solitary\, shackled\, denied \nits rights to visitors? \n  \nThe hard things that happened are gold \nyou hammer into shape\, the pain \nyou twist\, the grief you make shimmer\, \nthe lost good thing you restore \nby telling it back into being. \n  \nEveryone is in prison\, one way \nor another. And everyone is \nfree\, one way or another. The trick \nis to find your way to bear the story \nforth\, so it shines in the listener’s eyes. \n* \n  \nBlue Brick from the Midwest \n  \nAfter my father collapsed like a bolt of light\, toppled without a word\, \nI was the one to enter his study\, find the jagged note to our mother he \nscratched as he reeled\, the freight train of his departure hurtling \nthrough his heart— \n  \n \n  \n—a sentiment he did not speak in seventy-nine years\, as a tough customer\, \naffable but stern\, inert when grief came\, reserved as granite \nwhen my brother died\, cracking plaintive jokes when we trembled \nin the hospital\, mother going under the knife. \n  \nHis way was trenchant\, oblique. He distrusted those who \ntalk about God\, preferring to honor the holy with a glance\, \na nod\, or silence. Delving deeper\, the day he died\, we found \nin his sock drawer\, under that scant set of flimsy raiment\, the fetching \nphoto of the flirt; our mother\, coy at the sink\, looking back \nover her shoulder\, dressed only in an apron with a big bow. \nNo fool like an old fool. \n  \nAnd delving deeper\, at the back of the bottom file (the niche \nwhere one would hide the stuff of blackmail) I touched the blue \nbrick of love letters our mother had sent him when they \ncourted in the war—brittle leaves kissed snug together \nand bound with string\, the trouble he had carried \nin secret through every move since 1943. She knew \nthem not\, nor had his. “Oh Billy\,” she said. \n  \nFather\, early years taught your way with the heart’s contraband \nwhen the dirty thirties blunted your bravado\, tornado snatched \nyour friends\, the war your tenderness\, and left you with these secrets \nhoarded for us to find when you were gone. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nAt last Sunday’s Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering (April 11th) we shared “Mystic Poems and Prose.” I read William Stafford’s poem “Ask Me.” Kim has a story about this poem (my paraphrase): \n  \nThere was a big event at the Oregon Historical Society for the 100th Anniversary of William Stafford’s birth. OPB was there. Very Important People from the historical society and literary societies\, et cetera. A homeless man wandered in\, and headed for the table with the cookies. The cookies were being guarded by Someone of Importance. The homeless guy asked\, “What’s going on?” “We’re honoring a poet.” “Is he any good?” “Yes\, we think so: William Stafford.” The homeless man says\, “Ask me.” “Ask you what?” “Some time when the river is ice ask me mistakes I have made…” After the Uninvited Guest had finished reciting the poem\, the Guardian of the Refreshment Table asked\, “Would you like some cookies?” \n  \nAsk Me \n  \nSome time when the river is ice ask me \nmistakes I have made. Ask me whether \nwhat I have done is my life. Others \nhave come in their slow way into \nmy thought\, and some have tried to help \nor to hurt: ask me what difference \ntheir strongest love or hate has made. \n  \nI will listen to what you say. \nYou and I can turn and look \nat the silent river and wait. We know \nthe current is there\, hidden; and there \nare comings and goings from miles away \nthat hold the stillness exactly before us. \nWhat the river says\, that is what I say. \n  \n–William Stafford  (1914-1993) \n* \n  \nAt the Zoom gathering Todd Oleson read his favorite Emily Dickinson poem: \n  \nGod made a little Gentian – \nIt tried – to be a Rose – \nAnd failed – and all the Summer laughed – \nBut just before the Snows \n  \nThere rose a Purple Creature – \nThat ravished all the Hill – \nAnd Summer hid her Forehead – \nAnd Mockery – was still – \n  \nThe Frosts were her condition – \nThe Tyrian would not come \nUntil the North – invoke it – \nCreator – Shall I – bloom? \n  \n–Emily Dickinson  (1830-1886) \n* \n  \nJude read this poem by William Blake: \n  \nThe Divine Image \n  \nTo Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nAll pray in their distress; \nAnd to these virtues of delight \nReturn their thankfulness. \n  \nFor Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nIs God\, our father dear\, \nAnd Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nIs Man\, his child and care. \n  \nFor Mercy has a human heart\, \nPity a human face\, \nAnd Love\, the human form divine\, \nAnd Peace\, the human dress. \n  \nThen every man\, of every clime\, \nThat prays in his distress\, \nPrays to the human form divine\, \nLove\, Mercy\, Pity\, Peace. \n  \nAnd all must love the human form\, \nIn heathen\, turk\, or jew; \nWhere Mercy\, Love\, & Pity dwell \nThere God is dwelling too. \n  \n–William Blake  (1757-1857) \n* \n  \nLast Fall\, I walked out the back door and found the deck and the entire back yard covered with little orange polka dots. It was mysterious! Where had they come from? I looked up and discovered that a flock of cedar waxwings was flying back and forth from our maple tree to some neighbor’s bush or tree\, bringing hundreds (maybe thousands!) of orange berries. They ate the berries in the maple tree and spit out the skins. Mystery solved. This has absolutely nothing to do with the following poem\, which I have always loved: \n  \nWaxwings   \n  \nFour tao philosophers as cedar waxwings \nchat on a February berrybush \nin sun\, and I am one. \n  \nSuch merriment and such sobriety– \nthe small wild fruit on the tall stalk– \nwas this not always my true style? \n  \nAbove an elegance of snow\, beneath \na silk-blue sky a brotherhood of four \nbirds. Can you mistake us? \n  \nTo sun\, to feast\, and to converse \nand all together–for this I have abandoned all my other lives. \n  \n–Robert Francis  (1901-1987) \n* \n  \nWe bibliophiles didn’t get around to mystic prose last Sunday\, but as a special “peace\, love\, happiness & understanding” bonus\, here’s something loving and lovely from Thomas Traherne: \n  \n47  \nWhat life can be more pleasant\, than that which is delighted in itself\, and in all objects; in which also all objects infinitely delight? What life can be more pleasant\, than that which is blessed in all\, and glorious before all? Now this life is the life of Love. For this end therefore did He desire to Love\, that He might be Love. Infinitely delightful to all objects\, infinitely delighted in all\, and infinitely pleased in Himself\, for being infinitely delightful to all\, and delighted in all. All this He attaineth by Love. For Love is the most delightful of all employments. All the objects of Love are delightful to it\, and Love is delightful to all its objects. Well then may Love be the end of loving\, which is so complete. It being a thing so delightful\, that God infinitely rejoiceth in Himself for being Love. And thus you see how God is the end of Himself. He doth what He doth\, that He may be what He is: Wise and glorious and bountiful and blessed in being Perfect Love.  \n  \n48  \nLove is so divine and perfect a thing\, that it is worthy to be the very end and being of the Deity. It is His goodness\, and it is His glory. We therefore so vastly delight in Love\, because all these excellencies and all other whatsoever lie within it. By Loving a Soul does propagate and beget itself. By Loving it does dilate and magnify itself. By Loving it does enlarge and delight itself. By Loving also it delighteth others\, as by Loving it doth honor and enrich itself. But above all by Loving it does attain itself. Love also being the end of Souls\, which are never perfect till they are in act what they are in power. They were made to love\, and are dark and vain and comfortless till they do it. Till they love they are idle\, or mis-employed. Till they love they are desolate; without their objects\, and narrow and little\, and dishonorable: but when they shine by Love upon all objects\, they are accompanied with them and enlightened by them. Till we become therefore all Act as God is\, we can never rest\, nor ever be satisfied.  \n  \n–Thomas Traherne  (1636-1674) \n* \n  \nIn Centuries of Meditations\, Thomas Traherne has just over four hundred meditations. In the “Second Century\,” he goes on an extended meditation of love\, from numbers 39-67. I have included two typical ones.  \n  \nMay all people be happy. \nMay we live in love.  \n  \n—Johnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-4-15-21/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/0-2-2.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210415 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210515 DTSTAMP:20260502T014603 CREATED:20210416T163844Z LAST-MODIFIED:20210416T164502Z UID:2109-1618444800-1621036799@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue 4/15/21 DESCRIPTION:  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \n  \nSongs are thoughts\, sung out with the breath when people are moved by great forces and ordinary speech no longer suffices. Man is moved just like the ice floe sailing here and there in the current. His thoughts are driven by a flowing force when he feels joy\, when he feels fear\, when he feels sorrow. Thoughts can wash over him like a flood\, making his breath come in gasps and his heart throb. Something like an abatement in the weather will keep him thawed up. And then it will happen that we\, who always think we are small\, will feel still smaller. And we will fear to use words. But it will happen that the words we need will come of themselves. When the words we want to use shoot up of themselves–we get a new song. \n  \n—Orpingalik\, Netsilik Inuit \n  \n April 15\, 2020 \n  \nWelcome to our eighth meditation and mindfulness dialogue! The numbers below refer to passages from the book Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh. The tag on my Yogi tea bag says: “Let your heart speak to other hearts.” \n* \n  \nA MEMORY OF WHAT \nafter Tracy K. Smith \n  \nAngels with days for eyes \nlay their hands on the dead. \n  \nWho is so fixed & desolate \nthat they cannot see the walls of honey \n  \nclosing in on a fugitive grief? They wince so \nbeautifully against the sun\, calamity: \n  \nchildren\, aspects of children\, falling \nin love with a flower. They are lost \n  \nin a memory of what the field was. \nIn a memory of when the field was \n  \nin love with a flower\, we are lost \nchildren\, aspects of children\, falling \n  \nbeautifully against the sun\, calamity \nclosing in on a future grief. We wince so \n  \nwe cannot see the walls of honey. \nWhat is fixed & desolate \n  \nlays its hand on the dead \nangels with days for eyes. \n* \n  \nAMONG THE CATTAILS \n  \nIf all that’s left are ashes \nin a lazy\, bending wind \namong the cattails— \nif a moth is blown off course \nand lost in lust \nfor wander\, a crazing of grasses— \nif the cottonwoods are twinned \nby the sky’s calm sister\, \nsunrisen water—if \nyou find one day that you miss me\, \nmiss everyone\, and your days \nare an inconsolable star \nwithout a night to fall from— \nwe will wake as seedlings \namong the cattails. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nI have been unusually busy and am only now catching up on my readings. I apologize to this group for my comments printed in the January 15th newsletter. These were intended as a personal communication with Johnny\, and not at all intended for the newsletter. The miscommunication is entirely my fault\, I did not adequately delineate my comments as a side conversation. The context was Johnny and I discussing tradition and lineage\, and my own confusions about these topics. My comments were not in any way a criticism of this group or its participants. \n  \n—Shad Alexander \n* \n  \nMy Foolproof Plan for World Peace \n  \nI hereby declare today to be International Love Day. \nAnd a General Armistice. \nAll hostilities must cease on International Love Day. \nHenceforward\, every day is International Love Day. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \n[Three entries from Michel’s (almost) daily March meditation journal.] \n  \nMarch 7\, 2021  #92  Don’t Take Side \n  \nReconciliation is a beautiful idea. Yet\, even in here\, every one of us wants to be on “a side”—the winning sports team (or unit ball team)\, the “right” side of the power players (however one sees power displayed in prison: violence/aggression\, staff informant\, etc.)\, having the “right” charges and/or associates leading to the right job. Because whatever or whomever is of the “wrong” is to be despised\, belittled\, attacked\, exploited\, destroyed\, not tolerated to co-exist. So much suffering\, trauma\, and drama exists over this dualistic battle. I don’t recall (free) society being any different—possibly more subtle in some areas. We always have those who have/want power\, those who want to be close to power\, since they can’t have their own\, and those who run from power (maybe over-simplified\, and/or “wrongly” thought out.) \n  \nAs I read on\, Thây reminds me that: “What we (I) need are people who are capable of loving and not taking sides so that they can embrace the whole of reality….” “look at all beings with the eyes of compassion\, and we (I) can do the real work of helping to alleviate suffering.” I see that\, not only do I need/want to have people in my life “capable of loving and not taking sides\,” I also need/want to be that person in the world. When I (we) “look at all beings with the eyes of compassion…” it alleviates suffering—mine and theirs. \n  \nWhile I desire reconciliation with former friends and victims of my selfish choices\, I wonder how much simpler reconciliation I can do among my current friends and associates and/or family\, with whom I have contact. Or\, how much I need with my own self—letting me “off the hook” (providing forgivness) for mistakes\, big and small\, no longer taking a “side\,” and cultivating loving compassion to ease suffering in my world. \n  \nI imagine this reconciliation isn’t easy\, but it can’t be “hard” either. Thây wants me (us) to continue practicing mindfulness and reconciliation till I (we) see the suffering of others as my (our) own.  \n  \nThis is where it gets deep and demands much\, to give up self as separate from other\, and to see that we’re all made from the same mud. We all share the same source. Even though we insist on seeing separateness—me vs. you\, us vs. them—reconciliation helps us see the common ground we share\, upon which we can begin anew to build a future together\, not excluding anyone\, to strive toward relieving (alleviating)  suffering. \n  \nI believe I can do this work of developing mindfulness—breathing\, being aware\, holding compassion (instead of contempt)\, sharing love as acceptance\, patience and understanding. \n* \n  \nMarch 9\, 2021  #93  The Spiritual Dimension \n  \nOh\, if only all people pursued peace! What an amazing world this would be. But\, Wait! I can encourage friends\, family\, and anyone who is open to do so. I can bring the peace I have (find\, learn) into the world I already live in\, to begin a healing work in others I contact. Remind me again: Why is it I need to wait for the (war) world leaders to pull out and learn the ways of peace for their lives? Short answer: I don’t. I can communicate my desires for them to learn and pursue peace. But\, I can only find and cultivate my own. And\, I can support anyone else’s journey by expressing/living a life of peace. \n* \n  \nMarch 24\, 2021  #102  Like the Moon in the Sky \n  \n“Abandoning ideas” could be scary; especially if they are ideas of identity—“me\,” this self. It’s not that I cease to exist\, per se\, or that I wholly abandon my role in this play going on here. I LET GO of my attachment to the “role” and the “character’s” story. Shakespeare put it well when he called us all merely actors. \n  \nTo me\, an actor picks up a role: and a part in the story is begun. He or she develops a backstory\, beyond what’s provided\, to drive the character through conflicts to resolution. When the curtain falls for the last time\, the actor sets down the role and picks up with the role of the self. (But it’s not really different.) \n  \nI think this freedom Thây is speaking of today is like that actor. When I set down my attachment to all the stories spun for this role of Michel: then\, I become free to exist and move as I was created\, to be the person I came here to be—instead of this assumed role I was once convinced was the “real” me. (PS: I think glimpses of the “real” do shine through\, as with all actors bringing a piece of the self to a role.) \n  \nThe more I identify and attach to this story/role\, the more I face the challenge to discover a “real” self within this role. Thây is right\, happiness can’t come from this conflict (inner turmoil). It comes easily when I set down attachment to this role of “me.” The story of Michel persists\, until it ends: My participation is how I pursue suffering\, or ease into happiness…my breathing exercises. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \nQuiet Day \n  \nDawn day. Gone gray. \nNo car. No key. No place to be. \nNo task. No mask. No fancy shoes. \nNo news. Nothing to lose. \nNo greeting. No meeting. \nA quiet nook. A long look. \nNo call. No knock. Forgotten clock. \nSinging birds. Few words. Taking stock. \nDusk slow. Moon glow. Let go. \n* \n  \nAll My Relations \n  \nI want to thank all my relations \nfor this chance to be on Earth \nin her time of flourishing; to thank  \nthe First People of this place\, the  \nMultnomah people\, the Clackamas\, \nMolalla\, Tualatin\, & Chinook\, to honor  \ntheir sovereignty in long and continuing  \nrelation\, still teaching us how we might \nbe here together; to thank my mother and father\,  \nmoon and sun\, for setting me forth before  \ntheir own passing on; to thank my grandmother \nwho listened to me so eloquently I learned \nto listen to my own heart and mind\, to find \nstories and songs there; to thank my family  \nand friends\, and all citizens and travelers  \nwho study and work for deeper kinship  \nin this place\, with one another\, and with  \nall creatures\, one Earth\, visible\, palpable\,  \nfragile\, intricate\, resonant\, in need of our \nbetter stories. I want to thank you  \nwho have gathered to receive what I have  \ncarried here — in hope that something \nI have may meet something you need\, \nso all our relations may be strengthened \nfor the life we live together. \n  \n—Kim Stafford\, from Singer Come from Afar\, Red Hen Press\, 2021 \n* \n  \n#50  The Basic Principle \n  \n“Have we wasted our hours and our days?Are we wasting our lives? These are important questions.” \n  \nWaste: This is what caught my attention. All my life (well\, at least for the last 30 years or so) my guiding desire\, my guiding principle has been to Not Waste Life. Live this life! Be Alive!  Do Not Waste  Life. If you are afraid of something\, move into it; don’t run from it. Expand\, don’t contract.  \n  \nTo that end\, I have had a (very) full life. Full of good times and also very difficult times. I am aware of and grateful for both. Many will say that I have Too Many Things going on. Do you ever stop going? they ask. To be clear\, these activities are not things I think I should be doing. They are all passions\, things I love\, or feel strongly about —some despite\, or because of their difficulty or complexity. \n  \nMy husband has set some rules: For every new thing you take on\, something else has to go. You want to sing in the Voci Choir? Fine\, then you might stop leading those hikes for young girls. Learn how to graft fruit trees? Cool\, but stop digging and potting up your two hundred plants for the plant sale. Take classes in Middle eastern cooking? Cook meals for that new Hispanic family? Only if you stop cooking for that other family.  \n  \nSo I’m busy\, maybe ‘over scheduled.’ That is until recently when I had to stop everything for two months to recover from foot surgery. And not like the Pandemic Stop\, when I could still ride my bike and hike and carry on almost as always. This stoppage has a requirement of REST\, of HEALING\, of SLEEP\, of RECOVERY. In other words\, being quite…motionless. \n  \nThis has undermined my brain pattern of ‘activity’ as being ‘not wasting life.’ If I can’t ‘do’ anything\, I must be wasting life. But then I came around to this: I am ‘doing’ something active by recovering\, by healing. That is ‘productive!’ Whew! I am not wasting life.  \n  \nBut then I read the rest of The Basic Principle. “Practicing Buddhism is to be alive in each moment. When we practice sitting or walking\, we have the means to do it perfectly. During the rest of the day\, we also practice. It is more difficult\, but it is possible. The sitting and the walking must be extended to the non-walking\, non-sitting moments of our day. That is the basic principle of meditation.”  Not wasting life is not about being active\, or being active in being inactive. It’s not about being ‘productive\,’ although I’ve never been proud of the word nor used it as a complimentary personal characteristic. Moment by moment being active and aware\, being still and aware. Being in the moment\, every moment. Not wasting life is about being alive in each moment. It is not about always doing something. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nMorning Walk \n  \nIn the park \nImmersed in birdsong \nDrowned in trees \nI breathe it in \nUntil I smile \n  \n—Kristen Sagan \n* \n  \nMeditation and Mindfulness are simply the Art of paying attention. This is the most wonderful time of year\, when we can first take a walk outside after a cold winter and enjoy seeing the new life that comes\, without any need but the energy of life. The pink azaleas have bloomed\, and the magnificent magnolias. The ground is polka dotted after a wind with plum blossoms. This week on my son’s farm\, three sheep have given birth to one lamb each. Each one a surprise because their winter wool hides the mamas’ full bellies. Surprise and awe are two of the gifts of a happy life.  \n  \nThis sense of transformation is also ours just by noticing and being present to how we feel when happiness or kindness shows up.  \n  \nMy wish for us all this beautiful month of spring is to enjoy and notice the rebirth in the world; this can resonate within ourselves.  If you don’t have a wonderful outside view\, may you find some quiet time for breathing meditation.  I like to take that time every day at 3 p.m. and know that others are creating lovingkindness energy along with me.  In Vietnam at the same time\, Thich Nhat Hanh and Sister Chan Kong and the monks and nuns will be meditating together in the morning after ringing the temple bell.   \n  \nHere is a note from Thich Nhat Hanh on what we can do paying attention to our breath: \n  \n“Our breathing is a stable solid ground that is always there for us to take refuge in. Whenever we are carried away by regret about something that has happened\, or swept away in our fears or anxiety in the future\, we can return to our breathing\, and re-establish ourselves in the present moment.  \n  \nWe don’t need to control the breath in any way. We simply encounter it\, just as it is. It may be long or short\, deep or shallow. With the gentle energy of mindfulness it will naturally become slower and deeper.” \n  \nPeace and Love\,   \n  \nIf i could I would send you all peach blossoms\,     \n  \n—Katie Radditz URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-4-15-21/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/Unknown.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210425 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210516 DTSTAMP:20260502T014603 CREATED:20210402T155615Z LAST-MODIFIED:20210427T182246Z UID:2014-1619308800-1621123199@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Will Shakespeare's 457th Birthday Party!!! 4/25/21 DESCRIPTION:the Cobbe portrait \n  \nI know a bank where the wild thyme blows\, \nWhere oxlips and the nodding violet grows\, \nQuite over-canopied with luscious woodbine \nWith sweet musk-roses and with eglantine: \nAnd there the snake throws her enamell’d skin\, \nWeed wide enough to wrap a fairy in… \n  \n—A Midsummer Night’s Dream\, Oberon\, Act 2\, scene 1 \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! \n  \nWe had a lovely Zoom gathering on April 25th\, to celebrate Will’s 457th birthday (two days late). Because many of the people had experience doing Shakespeare plays in prison\, or going to see them there\, that’s mainly what we talked about. Friends from all over the world joined our conversation. \nAaron Gilbert played Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Sir Toby Belch in Twelfth Night at Two Rivers prison. He joined us from Roseburg. \nAllen Mills joined us from his truck (maybe somewhere in the vicinity of Newberg)\, while he took a coffee break from work. Allen played Hamlet\, Puck and Feste at Two Rivers prison.  \n Some of the Actor/Directors who enlivened our conversation were: \nCurt Tofteland of Shakespeare Behind Bars\, from Michigan. \nStratis Panourios from Athens. \nAshley Lucas of the Prison Creative Arts Project at the University of Michigan. \nAlan Benditt\, from Seattle. \nHoward Thoresen from New York. \nKeith Scales from Eureka Springs\, Arkansas. \nTodd Oleson from Walla Walla\, Washington. \nOther lovely friends who joined the conversation\, included Gail Lester from San Rafael\, and Portlanders Martha Ragland\, Jeffrey Sher\, Deborah Buchanan\, Tad Leflar and Nancy Scharbach. \nAnd of course Will Shakespeare was with us in spirit! \n  \n  \npeace\, love & happiness   \nJohnny \n  \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-will-shakespeares-457th-birthday-party-4-25-21/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210429 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210610 DTSTAMP:20260502T014603 CREATED:20210429T154953Z LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T123511Z UID:2150-1619654400-1623283199@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding 4/29/21 DESCRIPTION:THE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nApril 29\, 2021 \n  \nBIBLIOMANIA \n  \nI like to think of myself as a bibliophile\, but the correct term would probably be “bibliomaniac.” There is definitely something nutty about my relationship with books. Here’s an example: \n  \nOne day I had selected a stack of about eight books to check out from the downtown branch of the Multnomah County Library. I brought them to the front desk. The librarian began checking them out. About halfway through the pile she said: “I’m gonna have to cut you off here. This doesn’t happen very often. You aren’t allowed to have more than 500 books checked out at a time.” \n  \nSee what I mean. \n  \nI love books. I console myself with the thought that there are worse things to be addicted to. Probably meth would be worse\, in the long run. \n  \nAs a lad\, I hated school. It impinged upon my freedom to go wherever I felt like going and do whatever I felt like doing. Halfway through my Freshman year in college\, it dawned on me that going to school was optional. I walked away. I still sometimes have dreams where I walk out of school and get the most wonderful feeling! \n  \nOnce I left school\, I started reading like a madman. I could read anything I wanted to! It was thrilling! I carried a backpack with me wherever I went\, with at least five or six books in it. I had to have a lot of books to choose from\, because I didn’t know in advance which book I would be in the mood to read once I sat down in the coffee shop. I carried a bag of books with me for many years before I noticed that most people were walking around without any books! That seemed strange to me. It still does.  \n  \nLike\, what if someone found themself somewhere with nothing to read? What would they do? Fortunately\, I’ve never had that experience. \n  \nI start the day sitting on the couch. Then I begin building my nest. By ten o’clock I am surrounded by piles of books. Ask Nancy. \n  \nInstead of going for a long walk\, I’m much more likely to reserve a book from the library with a title like: 50 Best Oregon Hiking Trails.  \n  \nI consider my books to be my friends. And many of the authors\, likewise. I feel very fortunate to have Walt Whitman and William Shakespeare as companions on my life journey. And it’s lovely to make new friends. Wikipedia says that Thomas Traherne died in 1674\, but that doesn’t bother me in the slightest. We just recently became close. \n  \nAs I get older I read less and less\, and slower and slower\, but I still need to have a lot of books nearby—maybe the way some people enjoy having their golden lab sleeping next to them. When I come home\, all my books wag their tails. The shelves are crowded with worlds waiting to be explored. \n  \nThere are so many books! Way too many to read in a single lifetime! (Maybe I’ll have to come back again and again\, and get a new library card every time.) Of the books I have read\, I can’t remember much. Nevertheless\, some books changed the way I see and experience the world. I guess one of my ambitions is to live a life rich in meaning. Books have helped me with that. \n  \nI read slowly. Sometimes a few words are enough to satisfy me. I put the book back on the pile\, happy as a clam at high tide. \n  \nI’ve always dreamed of writing a book. I’ve gotten so much pleasure from reading books\, I’d like to give that same pleasure to others. But I don’t know what to say. Or how to say it. I’ve kept a journal for fifty years. I write letters. I’ve written a few poems and stories\, theater pieces and essays. I guess I’m writing this little essay\, or whatever it is. If I do ever manage to get something I’ve written published between the covers of a book\, it will probably consist of short things. I don’t seem to have the attention span or the work ethic to write something long. \n  \nWhen I was young\, I just assumed I’d effortlessly write a great book someday. Perhaps the “effortlessly” is the clue to why it never happened. Who knows? I may still write a book and get it published. I’m not dead yet. \n  \nHere are a few of the books I’ve enjoyed most: \n  \nI put a picture of Autobiography of a Yogi on the first page. I read that book when I was 19 and it opened up a world that I didn’t know existed—the world of the Indian yogi. It turned out that that world was quite congenial to me. In my twenties\, I lived for a couple years in India with yogis. For yogis\, silence—inner stillness—is important. For me\, too. \n  \nThree of my favorite short stories are: “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens\, “Dream of a Ridiculous Man” by Fyodor Dostoevsky\, and “Tenth of December” by George Saunders. (Jason Beito recommended the latter story to me.) The words “human” and “humane” are related. It feels like certain works of fiction subtly enlarge our humanity\, make us more human—more kind. Maybe all of Charles Dickens’ works do this. One thing the world could use a lot more of is kindness. These stories can help us with that. \n  \nI’m re-reading Huckleberry Finn (again). The older I get\, the better it gets. I’m not alone in rating it the greatest American novel. It would be hard to find a more entertaining story\, or a more keen-eyed observer of human foibles than Huck. \n  \nLast Sunday\, we celebrated William Shakespeare’s 457th birthday on Zoom with friends from all over the place—Curt Tofteland and Ashley Lucas from Michigan\, Howard Thoresen from New York\, Stratis Panourios from Athens\, Alan Benditt from Seattle\, Todd Oleson from Walla Walla\, Keith Scales from Eureka Springs\, Arkansas\, Aaron Gilbert from Roseburg\, Allen Mills from Newberg\, and a number of friends from Portland. Since a lot of us have had experience acting\, directing and going to see Shakespeare plays in prison\, that’s mostly what we talked about. \n  \nWhat makes William Shakespeare so important to me has to do with the fact that he didn’t write novels—he wrote plays. And you can do the plays! Putting on his plays is an even greater pleasure than reading them. You learn the words! You play the parts! You rehearse the scenes over and over. Finally\, you perform the plays for your friends! In his day\, actors were called “players.” Kids need to play\, but grownups do too. There is no one more fun to play with than Will. And no better place to play the plays than in prison. \n  \nAnother book I’m re-reading (again) is Shakespeare and the Goddess of Complete Being by Ted Hughes. It’s my favorite book about Shakespeare. Ted Hughes is a poet; with great intuition and sympathy he explores the personal\, historical and mythological dimensions of Shakespeare’s plays and poems. I had always wondered about Shakespeare’s inner life—who was he? Ted Hughes goes where a vast army of Shakespeare scholars have never dreamed of going. For me\, reading the book is thrilling—which is kind of weird for a book of literary criticism\, if that’s what it is. Okay\, that’s not what it is. But what is it? I don’t know. It doesn’t fit into any categories. It’s not like any other book. When I get to the end\, I’ll start again at the beginning. \n  \nOver the years\, in trying to better understand the meaning of my human life on Earth—(what’s going on here?)—I’ve continued to study what might be called “the wisdom of the East.” Joseph Campbell is one of my favorite guides. If this is a subject that interests you\, I would highly recommend the book Talks With Ramana Maharshi\, and the writings of R. H. Blyth\, J. Krishnamurti\, Shunryu Suzuki\, Thich Nhat Hanh\, Alan Watts\, Lao Tzu\, Seng Ts’an and Han Shan. \n  \nI’ve probably read more nonfiction than fiction. With nonfiction I can learn things I didn’t know\, and even change my inner landscape. I thought this essay would be about how books have shaped the way I see and experience the world\, but my mind meandered off in other directions. Maybe I’ll write that essay another day. \n  \nFor a bibliomaniac like me\, the subject of books has no beginning or end. Like the great globe itself\, the world of books is vast beyond our ability to know it. \n  \nA poem that changed my life and has enriched it endlessly is “Song of Myself\,” by Walt Whitman. It’s good to read and re-read it aloud\, as often as possible. If when you read it\, you mean what you say and feel it\, it will do something big to you. \n  \nIf I could take only one book to the proverbial desert island\, I’d take The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. A most rare vision! It hath no bottom. \n  \n  \nWe’re off to Mexico next week! Back in a month. \nOur revels now are ended. These our actors\, \nAs I foretold you\, were all spirits and \nAre melted into air\, into thin air: \nAnd\, like the baseless fabric of this vision\, \nThe cloud-capp’d towers\, the gorgeous palaces\, \nThe solemn temples\, the great globe itself\, \nYea\, all which it inherit\, shall dissolve \nAnd\, like this insubstantial pageant faded\, \nLeave not a rack behind. We are such stuff \nAs dreams are made on\, and our little life \nIs rounded with a sleep.   \n                      \n—William Shakespeare\, Prospero from The Tempest\, Act 4\, scene 1 \n  \n  \npeace & love \nJohnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-4-29-21/ END:VEVENT END:VCALENDAR