BEGIN:VCALENDAR
VERSION:2.0
PRODID:-//The Open Road:  a learning community - ECPv6.15.3//NONSGML v1.0//EN
CALSCALE:GREGORIAN
METHOD:PUBLISH
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
BEGIN:DAYLIGHT
TZOFFSETFROM:-0800
TZOFFSETTO:-0700
TZNAME:PDT
DTSTART:20220313T100000
END:DAYLIGHT
BEGIN:STANDARD
TZOFFSETFROM:-0700
TZOFFSETTO:-0800
TZNAME:PST
DTSTART:20221106T090000
END:STANDARD
END:VTIMEZONE
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20211115
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20211215
DTSTAMP:20260427T082856
CREATED:20211116T220618Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20211130T001412Z
UID:2473-1636934400-1639526399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  11/15/21
DESCRIPTION:photo by Kim Stafford \n  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \n  \n  November 15\, 2021 \n  \nIn childhood\, you could look miles across a cookie\, and never see the other side. \n  \n—William Stafford \n* \n  \n(This poem by Alex Tretbar is part of a much longer poem called “Cat’s Game.”) (JS) \n  \nINDRA’S NET \n  \nEven gods & holy \nmen have their toys \n& tools of trade: \n  \nHermes the caduceus \n& Jehova His burning bush \n& Odin his ravens \n& the Buddha a stone himself. \n  \nAnd there is elephant-throned Indra \nwith his jewel-bedecked net. \n  \nWhat does he catch with it? \n  \nNothing (everything)\, actually. \nThe net lies draped in the air \naround his castle\, and all matter \nreflects & refracts \nthrough the facet clusters stationed \nat every X of the mesh—infinite gems\, \n  \nall of which link to the others. \nPeer into one & peer into all: \nsee  your face \nas though through a fly’s  \ncomposite eyes\, see your face \nsuperimposed over \nevery human face to grow \n& fade\, all faces of clock & moon\, \nsurface of all waters \nboth quiet & vengeful \nthe original \n  \n     drop \n  \nof cytoplasm \nfrom every star’s vantage— \nall of the brittle cosmos \ncaught up in a fractal \nself-repeating\, coiling \nwithout pause within \nyour eye. \n  \nNo one is to blame. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \n(Katie Radditz sent this story from Loren Eiseley\, author of The Immense Journey.) (JS) \n  \nWhile wandering a deserted beach at dawn\, stagnant in my work\, I saw a man in the distance bending and throwing as he walked the endless stretch toward me. As he came near\, I could see that he was throwing starfish\, abandoned on the sand by the tide\, back into the sea. When he was close enough I asked him why he was working so hard at this strange task. He said that the sun would dry the starfish and they would die. I said to him that I thought he was foolish. There were thousands of starfish on miles and miles of beach. One man alone could never make a difference. He smiled as he picked up the next starfish. Hurling it far into the sea he said\, “It makes a difference for this one.” I abandoned my writing and spent the morning throwing starfish. — Loren Eiseley \n  \n(Katie adds:) \n  \nIt’s a fabulous reminder when we feel guilty that we are not doing more to help.  What’s important is to do what we love—for those who come along our path. This is a tale for living a magical life\, just appreciating that we and all these amazing beings are alive.   \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n* \n  \n(Here are some excerpts from Michel’s meditation journal. The numbers refer to sections from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh.) (JS) \n  \nOctober 10\, 2021  #177  THE INDIVISIBLE BODY OF REALITY \n  \n….I have learned sometime back—how far\, I don’t recall—that everything is part of the whole. Some may say\, “I see a unified reality\,” as in\, “We’re all in this together.” And I agree. For me\, this goes deeper. Since I adopted a view of the original cause of all things as GOD—(drawing deeply from Jewish sources\, along with an Evangelical Protestant Christian upbringing)—I perceive this omnipresent Being (God is everywhere at all times—beyond time\, even) of infinite power created\, first\, a space in infinite reality for this reality to exist. Many traditions have looked for explanation of whys and wherefores. I’ve learned to accept some of what I can’t know—hoping benevolence over malevolence. \n  \nBy retracting some of the infinitude of GOD\, GOD made space for me—or even for “me\,” with all the so-called negatives (“bad”) and positives (“good”) I may bring forth in this world. I see this world as a creation to allow the Infinite-All-That-Is (unity) to experience relationship\, which requires “other.” I base this on: If GOD is ALL\, then there is no…thing else. Any other would be subsumed into GOD’s ALL—as a candle’s light is subsumed by the sun\, yet even more so. What this contraction of All-That-Is idea does for me is to create a space for “me” to exist\, along with my present “reality\,” and I am able to experience relationships to other people\, to other beings (sentient or not)\, and to All-That-Is. Under all this is an interconnection between all things. We may not see it\, or even want to do so—that’s okay. This connection informs\, for me\, that were GOD to reveal the infinite to man\, we would cease to exist as individuals\, and interdependence would meld back into the Ultimate Unity\, as all “things” once again became The One\, Source-of-All. \n  \nInterconnectedness is probably easier to contemplate than my personal glimpse of reality. Sadly\, the view doesn’t always hold to the forefront of my mind\, and so I “fall” victim to interpreted reality (based on Ego)\, losing sight of just how deeply interconnected we all are in this “now” moment\, and I see myself as independent and alone. \n  \nThis “alone”-ness is just a fabrication of mind attempting to assert a control over reality\, claiming independence from “others\,” and forgetting the value of a reality where “We’re all in this present moment together.” The Buddha taught “the three poisons” as his way of explaining in simple human terms what he came to see as the Ultimate Reality (he named “Nirvana”-paradise). However we learn to label and accept reality as it is—(exploring Ultimate Reality at times)—we can eventually learn to see a connection to all other “beings” and “things” within this reality. It isn’t easy to explain and/or wrap a mind around. Forgive me my simple fallibility\, as I am also part of you\, as much you are a precious part of my being too. \n  \n  \nOctober 14\, 2021  #181 A BABY CRIES \n  \nI wonder\, how many of us are scared of babies in some fashion—their neediness we can’t meet\, their fragility we may fracture\, their delicate frame\, or emotional state\, and more? Learning to see and embrace our emotional state of anger (or any emotional state) as our suffering baby within\, holding and comforting him or her: this seems foreign to me\, yet it also makes some sense in the world of mindfulness. When we engage our playful side\, and imagine emotional states\, such as anger\, as fragile\, delicate babies in much need of gentleness and loving care—then\, maybe\, we can also imagine ourselves giving loving tender care as we hope we might\, instead of what we fear we might do as an alternative. Maybe I’m the only one (not likely) to have trepidation when it comes to babies in general\, and\, specifically\, to holding or comforting one. It has been many years since I’ve been around a baby. It can’t be too “hard” to do. I can imagine\, pretend doing what I want\, even now\, when I feel distressed and upset. And in doing so I’m imagining what I can do for that core expression of my emotional state. That would be mindfulness. \n  \n  \nOctober 26\, 2021  #188  IDEAS OF HAPPINESS \n  \nThis one is so very true. I have seen this in my own life\, as well as numerous others. There is an oblivion we develop around ideas of happiness: If only…when I get/do/become…etc….then I’ll be happy. Yet\, how often do we find ourselves in the “ideal” and still not happy! Have you ever noticed this in your own life\, or that of others? (Sometimes I can see my own challenges more clearly when they are part of someone else’s life challenges.) \n  \nSo\, what does it really take for us to be truly happy? How do we get there? Or is it\, like many lessons I’ve learned\, already present fully developed and waiting to be “let out”? What do you think? Is this plausible? What’s your experience of this? \n  \nAt one point I had to learn (again?) what happiness was—an absence of sadness. Thankfully\, I had a great friend to help me talk my way out of the morass I had put myself into. (A story for another day.) It was the oddest idea at the time: If I wasn’t “sad\,” then I must be feeling happy! There’s lots of books and ideas about finding your happiness. Thây offers the simplest and easiest path to realize the happiness present already. \n  \n  \nOctober 28\, 2021  #189  THE APPLE TREE \n  \nThe first part of this reminds me of the Gravenstein apple tree in my grandparents’ back yard. The apples were great for applesauce. I loved them best when they were underripe—tart and yet sweet\, with a crisp crunch. They never became mealy\, like red or yellow Delicious. They were also good for pies! But I digress. Thây’s point was about paying attention—being mindful of living beings: (entities\, not all of which are sentient). It’s not hard to do\, just pay attention and act on what you observe in the moment; no grand schemes or plans required. Just be in the now…. \n  \nI haven’t seen a tree in over 14 years. Not up close or on any sort of regular basis. But I am surrounded by plenty of beings in need (?) of my attentive presence in the now. I can give that to them\, and myself too\, by remembering to breathe and not attach to what happens—what I hear\, or what others do. I can set an intention to be\, to be present\, to be attentive (as needed)\, to respond (as needed)\, and to offer compassion for that being. Maybe that’s your Apple Tree too?! Watch ‘em grow. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \nEach leaf of grass\, each single spear\, whether it be green blade or brown blade\, is the resting place of each night’s dreams that turn into mist and dew. \n  \nSome of the dreams grow into the ground to grow once again more loves to hold more dreams\, while some evaporate into sky and return to the lakes\, rivers and seas\, and become dreams once again. \n  \nOn a full-moon night\, when all is covered in mist and dew\, upon the grass a million drops will rest like shivering diamonds twinkling in the moonlight. The grass in a small patch could hold the dreams of the whole world for us to behold. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nReflections in the Heart (#332) \n  \n“Everything—the trees\, the wind\, the birds\, the mountains\, everything inside us and around us—wants to reflect itself in us. We don’t have to go anywhere to obtain the truth. We only need to be still\, and things will reveal themselves in the still water of our heart.” (from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh) \n  \nThank goodness! Is this telling me that I don’t have to apologize for\, or explain\, or defend my lack of desire to travel??? To be somewhere else—some exotic\, exciting\, stimulating somewhere else? Everybody I know loves and lives for travel: Italy\, Argentina\, Croatia\, Greece… And as soon as they return\, they’re planning for the next great adventure. And I’m sure they all are ‘great adventures.’ They say to me\, “You have the time\, you have the money\, why don’t you just go?” But… I love being here\, right here\, at home. \n  \nHere is my thought: we moved away from Portland fourteen years ago. Ever since then\, when people ask me what’s our next travel plan\, what’s our next destination\, I reply\, “Here. Right here. We are the destination! Nowhere to go. This is it.” \n  \nAnd there is a delicious stillness to it. People say\, “But don’t you feel isolated up there? Don’t you feel alone?” Isolated\, no. Alone— deliciously\, yes. And some people say\, “Isn’t it…boring? Sometimes?” No way. Why\, just the other day\, while walking Lolo up on the canal\, I encountered a pickup truck with two young guys. They hopped out and asked if I had seen a couple of cows wandering around loose. “Why no\,” I said\, “I haven’t. Where did they wander away from?” “Oh\, from the Mountain Meat Packing Company up there on Miller Road.” I burst out laughing and said\, “Well\, friends\, if I see them I’m going to round them up and hide them in my back yard!” So in that random encounter I sure wouldn’t call any part of it boring. Would you? I thought not. And moreover\, if I don’t want to feel alone\, I can drive two miles up to Parkdale\, population 430—a bustling metropolis—and hang out at the post office. \n  \nWhen I am alone\, when things are in their stillness\, I can—as I call it—ponder and wander. It is when my thoughts can have the space to be the most creative\, and ‘productive\,’ (e.g. thoughts becoming material for a short story)\, or when things just settle into quietude. I am not isolated. I am not alone. \n  \nMy heart is in my home; my home is in my heart.  \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nA humble recent poem in case it might be useful. \n  \nI woke up with the phrase in mind\, “Friendly corner.” What that mean? I asked this in my mind\, and into my mind came the image of a great old tree…so I wrote the poem to learn the story of this good thing: \n  \n  \n                    Friendly Corner \n  \nPeople use it to give directions. For neighbors\,  \nit’s the nexus. If we had no church or school\, \nthis is where we’d gather\, for it’s all about  \nthe great old tree—that’s why children come. \nFor the wee ones\, a root hump throne makes you  \nqueen of all you see. A little older\, you can ride  \nthe long low limb for horse\, and race the wind.  \nOlder yet\, climb ladder branches to find the hollow  \nhouse for dreams. Is it any wonder mothers meet \nto share their joys and sorrows? Sometimes fathers\,  \ntoo. Is this where you want to live\, and what you  \nwant to see? There’s just one way: plant the tree. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nWith our thoughts we create worlds\, then live in them. Each day\, sometimes from one moment to the next\, we might find ourself in a Hell. Or a Paradise. Once we get the hang of it\, perfect happiness can be ours in the blink of an eye. Our life is short. This day is precious. There is no other. \n  \nA few days after I wrote the previous brief meditation\, I was inspired by Michel’s meditation\, A BABY CRIES. Thich Nhat Hanh had written that we should treat our anger the way a mother would treat a crying baby\, by holding it tenderly. In his meditation\, Michel begins by saying: “I wonder\, how many of us are scared of babies in some fashion—their neediness we can’t meet\, their fragility we may fracture\, their delicate frame\, or emotional state\, and more?” In the July issue\, I proposed that people try a baby meditation: imagining being a baby\, looking out at the world without language\, concepts\, identity\, regrets\, or problems. Michel’s meditation made me imagine another meditation. Here it is: \n  \nWhen you are by yourself\, and no one is watching\, cross your arms across your chest and imagine that you are holding a newborn baby against your body. Really feel it! Okay\, now imagine that the baby is you. Hold your baby self tenderly in your arms and love your baby self with all your heart. \n  \nThat’s the meditation. We all need to love ourself. For many people this is difficult. For some\, it feels almost impossible. We all started our life journey as tiny babies. That innocent\, fragile\, perfect being is who we are. I’m hoping that this meditation will help us to feel deeply the truth of this. \n  \nThis might also be a healing exercise for those who\, like Michel\, have not been around a baby for many years. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nNot long ago I came across a poem that Jack Kerouac wrote to his former wife (Kerouac being the beat-era writer who inspired many of us to lead FULL lives\, no matter what).  His poem includes this little passage that I’ve been savoring since I read it: \n  \nPractice kindness all day to everybody \nand you will realize you’re already \nin heaven now. \n  \nThanks Jack\, and thanks Johnny.       \n  \nlove\,    \n  \n—Bill Faricy \n* \n  \n(As I was putting the finishing touches on this dialogue\, I discovered a fresh new poem on Kim’s FaceBook page. It’s perfect for our Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue.) (JS) \n  \n     My Infrastructure \n  \nThat gate latch—loose. \nShovel and hoe—dull. \nDripping faucet—priority. \nFrayed shoelace—on the list. \nConnectivity—upgrade overdue. \nBasement storage—disaster. \nEyes\, teeth\, weight\, feet— \nyears of deferred maintenance. \nPreparation for the big one—a joke. \nGrasp of reality—in shambles. \nSo—where to begin? \n  \n—Kim Stafford
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-11-15-21/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/11/250917738_10161742164834657_1516520249018441912_n.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20211125
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20211209
DTSTAMP:20260427T082857
CREATED:20211125T200308Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T125819Z
UID:2483-1637798400-1639007999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  11/25/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nNovember 25\, 2021 \n  \n  \nThis is a theater piece I wrote a while back. I performed it once\, at the First Unitarian Church of Portland. (J.S.) \n  \n  \nGoldfinches! \na theatrical monologue \n  \nthis is a story about stories \n  \nand about something that we might call “the storyless state” \n  \njoseph campbell wrote a book called the hero with a thousand faces about a kind of story that is found throughout history and all over the world that he called “the hero’s journey” \n  \nwe can use the hero’s journey as a metaphor for our life \n  \nand i would like to use it as the structure for this evening’s entertainment \n  \nthe hero’s journey begins with the call to adventure \n  \nwe have all already answered the call to adventure by coming here tonight \n  \nwe could have stayed home and watched tv \n  \nbut instead we left the comfort and safety and security of our homes—for what? \n  \nwe don’t know \n  \nand that is where the hero journeys: into the unknown \n  \ninto a dark wood\, or a cave\, or to the bottom of the sea \n  \none of the main things about the unknown is that you don’t know what you will find \n  \ni answered the call to adventure by deciding to write and perform a theatrical monologue \n  \nwhy would i want to undertake such a thing? \n  \nthat brings me to a little story about my life… \n  \nwhen i graduated from high school\, i went to college just like i was supposed to \n  \nbut i had never liked school \n  \nit always felt like a prison to me \n  \none day i realized that going to school was optional \n  \nand i could opt not to go \n  \nwhich i did \n  \nnow that is the age when you are supposed to choose a career and get with the program \n  \nbut i graduated from maui high school in 1969\, during the hippie era \n  \nwe are very prone to conformity at that age—maybe throughout life—and somehow i found myself conforming to the hippie form of “non-conformity” \n  \nwith long hair and oddball clothing and bare feet and all that \n  \nthat was how i wanted to present myself to the world \n  \ni felt more at home in this costume than in a white shirt\, suit and tie \n  \nnow\, “hippie” is not really a career choice and in fact\, i neglected to choose an occupation \n  \ni’ve held a variety of odd jobs—i once spent 18 months testing beet pulp pellets for hardness\, durability and fine particle content \n  \nfor many years i found the familiar question “what do you do?” to be difficult to answer \n  \nnow that i’m old\, i can look back on my life and ask: “what is my job?” \n  \nor\, better yet\, “what did i come here to do?” \n  \nand the answer\, i think—or at least one answer is: to gather people together \n  \nand so that is why i had the hare-brained idea of writing and performing a theatrical monologue \n  \nit’s a trick to get people to gather together \n  \nand here we are \n  \nso\, what happens after the hero answers the call to adventure? \n  \nhe or she goes into the wilderness—the unknown—on a quest for something \n  \nand sometimes you know what you are seeking and sometimes you don’t \n  \nbut in the unknown you always find something \n  \nand typically\, the hero encounters obstacles or difficulties \n  \nand meets magic helpers \n  \nand finds a treasure—which is probably guarded by a dragon or something \n  \nand the hero kills the dragon or at least tricks it \n  \nand steals the treasure \n  \nand returns home with something of value—not just for himself or herself—but for everyone \n  \nnow here’s an interesting thing: each one of us has treasure within \n  \neach one of us is the treasure \n  \nso\, why do we have to go down into a cave or to the bottom of the sea to find it? \n  \nwell\, that’s a good question \n  \nhere’s a story that is found in many cultures: \n  \nbefore we are born\, we have a special gift \n  \nand in the process of being born\, we lose the gift \n  \nand it is our task to find out what our gift is and then give it to everyone \n  \nfor example\, you might have a gift of music \n  \nand not know it \n  \nand you need to discover that you have it before you can share it with others \n  \nbut if you do\, your gift blesses everyone \n  \nanother version of this story is: \n  \nwhen we are born\, we forget who we are \n  \nand who we are is god \n  \nand we have to re-discover this \n  \nwe have to remember what has been forgotten \n  \nthe greek word for this is “anamnesis”—remembering what has been forgotten \n  \nso that is one version of our hero’s journey—we have to go to the bottom of the sea\, or to the first unitarian church\, or wherever\, to remember who we are \n  \nand we have to do this every day \n  \ngoing to sleep every night is like dying \n  \nand every morning we wake up and it’s a new day \n  \nwe have been reborn \n  \nand it’s great if we were happy yesterday\, but it doesn’t really help us to be happy today \n  \nand we need to find happiness today \n  \nand what worked yesterday will not work today \n  \nwe have to try something new \n  \nand where is the new found? \n  \nin the unknown \n  \nand so\, in a way\, we all may have thought we were coming here just to entertain or be entertained\, but actually we came here because we have to save our own life \n  \nwe have to be reborn \n  \nnow\, as the storyteller\, or entertainer\, i guess it’s supposed to be my job to come up with something really fantastic \n  \nyou know\, the greatest theatrical monologue you’ve ever heard\, or whatever \n  \nbut i’m not too worried about that\, because\, as far as i’m concerned\, i’ve already done my job\, which is to gather us together \n  \nand i don’t have to bring a great treasure\, because you are\, we are\, the treasure \n  \nand i have a kind of foolproof method of creating a magical\, fantastic\, wonderful experience\, which is: at the end of my monologue\, we will have a dialogue \n  \nand a dialogue circle cannot fail to be a perfect thing \n  \nand so i’d like to reassure anyone who is worried that this evening will be something less than perfect—that is not gonna happen! \n  \nit’s gonna be perfect \n  \nbecause however lame or inadequate my “entertaining” monologue is\, we will all have an opportunity to remedy that together in the dialogue circle \n  \nokay\, back to our hero’s journey\, which is our journey into story and storylessness \n  \nwilliam butler yeats said that each person has their own myth and that one of your jobs as a poet\, or just as a human being\, is to find out what your myth is \n  \nthat goes back to the idea of remembering what has been forgotten \n  \ni’d like to talk about a couple kinds of stories\, which i call: \n  \nidentity and mythos \n  \nidentity refers to the stories we tell ourselves about who we are \n  \nand mythos refers to our stories about the world \n  \nnow i am going to tell you a little story about my mythos \n  \nmany years ago\, when i was young\, i read a story by fyodor dostoevsky called “the dream of a ridiculous man” \n  \ni loved the story \n  \nit really resonated with me\, as they say \n  \nhere’s the story: \n  \nthere’s a guy who is depressed \n  \nlife has no meaning for him \n  \nhe feels that nothing makes any difference \n  \nhe decides to kill himself \n  \nhe buys a gun \n  \nhe’s just waiting for the right moment to do the deed \n  \nand he’s walking home and he sees a star in the sky and decides: “tonight is the night” \n  \nbut then a little girl comes up to him and wants his help \n  \nher mother is dying or is in some very bad situation and the little girl is crying and trying to get this guy to come with her \n  \nbut he doesn’t help the little girl \n  \nhe goes home so that he can commit suicide \n  \nbut he can’t get the little girl out of his mind \n  \nand he feels like he has to figure something out before he dies \n  \nand while he’s sitting there\, trying to figure it all out he falls asleep and dreams a dream \n  \nand this is his dream: \n  \nhe dreams that he kills himself \n  \nand he goes to another planet\, which is like earth\, except that it is paradisal \n  \nthere is no fear or war or hatred \n  \nit is a world where everyone lives in love \n  \nand in his dream he ruins everything in this perfect world \n  \nhe brings about a fall\, very much like what happens in the story of adam and eve \n  \nand the love planet gets worse and worse until it resembles our own \n  \nand then he wakes up \n  \nand he has a very strong feeling that he has seen the truth—that our life could be completely transformed\, it could be perfect\, if only we would love each other \n  \nso that’s dostoevsky’s story \n  \nand i liked it so much that i decided to perform it \n  \nbut it seemed too short for an evening in the theater\, so i added a piece that i had written called “columbus” \n  \ni wrote columbus in 1992\, for the 500th anniversary of columbus’ first voyage to the western hemisphere \n  \ni grew up with the story that columbus was a great hero who had discovered america \n  \nin my version there’s this guy who is drunk and he claims to be christopher columbus \n  \nand it isn’t explained whether this man is delusional\, or if he is the spirit of christopher columbus\, back from the dead\, or whatever \n  \nanyhow\, this christopher columbus is self-medicating with alcohol because he is in a lot of pain \n  \nin his version\, he didn’t discover anything—people already lived here \n  \nand they were a beautiful people—the taino—and they lived without war\, in a kind of paradise \n  \nand he brought about a fall \n  \nthe taino are no more \n  \nand my blubbering drunken christopher columbus wanted everyone to know that he had seen and understood something—that people can be beautiful and innocent and loving \n  \nhe had seen it with his own eyes \n  \nand it was only after i had put these two pieces together that i realized that they had the same theme: \n  \nparadise\, fall\, and a vision of a possible return to paradise \n  \nand i thought: “maybe this is my myth” \n  \npeople tend to think of paradise as something that may have existed in the past\, or which might exist in the future—maybe even after we die \n  \nbut paradise is this world in which we live—just as it is \n  \nthis gathering is paradise \n  \nand everyone sitting here is perfect \n  \nis paradise \n  \nso it seems to me \n  \nthis is my mythos—the story i tell myself about the world \n  \nnow it may be objected: “how can this world be paradise when it is obviously all screwed up?” \n  \ngood question \n  \ninstead of arguing whether the world is in fact perfect or whether it is all screwed up\, i would like to explore the sense in which it seems to me that the world is perfect \n  \nimagine\, for a moment\, a goldfinch \n  \na goldfinch is perfect \n  \na goldfinch does not need to be improved \n  \nthe very idea is absurd \n  \neverything is like the goldfinch \n  \neach one of us is a goldfinch \n  \nperfect \n  \nthis is my thesis \n  \nmy mythos \n  \num\, so where are we on our hero’s journey this evening? \n  \nokay\, so you answered the call to adventure by coming here \n  \nand your guide\, your magic helper\, on this journey through the dark wood of this evening is me \n  \nan unreliable guide! \n  \nand now we’re lost! \n  \nbut according to the unreliable guide\, the trickster-helper\, that’s okay \n  \naccording to me\, getting lost is a perfectly acceptable variant of the hero’s journey \n  \nlet’s take an example from alice in wonderland \n  \nalice says that she feels like maybe she’s lost and wonders which path she should take \n  \nand the cheshire cat asks her where she is going \n  \nand she replies that she doesn’t know \n  \nand he says: “then it doesn’t matter which path you take” \n  \nand that’s kind of like us \n  \nexcept that we don’t need to get anywhere\, because we are already here \n  \nthat’s another common story theme \n  \nthe bold adventurer travels the world and ends up returning home and finding the treasure under his or her own hearth \n  \nhearth equals heart \n  \nthat’s where our treasure is \n  \nnot far away \n  \nand what is the point of this theatrical monologue? \n  \nit is to go forth and return home \n  \nto the silence which preceded the story \n  \nthe world is always larger than our picture of the world \n  \nour descriptions and explanations are like cartoons \n  \nit’s like the difference between looking at a postcard of multnomah falls and standing in front of multnomah falls \n  \nor as mark twain said: the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning \n  \nin this analogy\, my “entertaining” theatrical monologue is the lightning bug \n  \nand what is the lightning? \n  \nyou are the lightning \n  \ni am the lightning \n  \nthe lightning is us—just as we are \n  \nwords are useful in reminding us of the inadequacy of words \n  \nthe gold that each of us came here to find\, whether we knew it or not\, is each other \n  \nwe tend to believe that the stories we tell ourselves are true \n  \nthe friendly person lives in a friendly world \n  \nthe fearful person lives in a dangerous world \n  \nwe imagine a world and then we live in that world \n  \nand who is the person who lives in this imagined world? \n  \ni think it works something like this: \n  \nwhen we are born\, we cannot speak or understand what people are saying to us \n  \nbut very quickly we get the hang of it\, and by the time we are four—even earlier—we are quite fluent in speaking and understanding the language that our parents speak \n  \nas we grow up we learn whether we are a boy or a girl\, whether we are smart or stupid\, whether we are beautiful or unattractive\, whether great things are expected of us\, or whether we’ll never amount to much \n  \nby our early twenties we should have everything figured out: \n  \nwe might be a beautiful republican woman \n  \nor an angry environmentalist \n  \nwe could be a skater\, a scientist\, or a sinner \n  \na buddhist\, a baptist\, an atheist\, a plumber\, a poet\, or a certified public accountant \n  \nwe might be fat\, depressed\, friendly\, ambitious\, lazy\, sexy\, shy\, anxious\, optimistic\, pessimistic \n  \nbut whatever we have become\, whatever we believe\, we are sort of stuck with it \n  \nit’s impressive and amazing that we can create an identity and a mythos \n  \nit’s absolutely necessary that we do this \n  \nbut it becomes a kind of prison\, from which it seems there is no escape \n  \nwe are fictional characters\, living in fictional worlds of our own creation \n  \nend of story? \n  \nwell\, sort of \n  \nbecause this is prelude to the storyless state \n  \nin addition to our very impressive ability to think and to speak\, we have the wonderful ability to be still \n  \nto be awake and alert \n  \neach one of us is nourished by a silence that has no beginning or end \n  \nnot confined within our descriptions\, explanations\, thoughts\, memories\, stories and imaginings \n  \nfearless\, loving\, carefree \n  \nnot in the world\, we are the world \n  \na world beyond our ken \n  \nwhere everything and everyone is miraculous \n  \nperfect \n  \nlike a raincloud\, a stone \n  \na goldfinch \n  \nthank you                                                                                                              \n  \n  \n  \n—Johnny Stallings
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-11-25-21/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20211209
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20211223
DTSTAMP:20260427T082857
CREATED:20211209T171214Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20211209T171700Z
UID:2500-1639008000-1640217599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  12/9/21
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \n  \nDecember 9\, 2021 \n  \n  \nSome stories get better with each telling. This is one of those stories. Charles Dickens used to do public readings of an abridged version of “A Christmas Carol” at this time of year. This is based on his abridged version. On Sunday\, December 12th\, at 3 pm (PST) our Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering will feature a Group Reading of this version of A Christmas Carol. Here’s the link: \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nIt’s gonna be fun! I hope you can join us! Merry Christmas! God Bless Us Every One! (J.S.) \n  \n  \nA Christmas Carol \n  \n  \nStoryteller:  Marley was dead. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman\, the clerk\, the undertaker\, and the chief mourner\, Ebenezer Scrooge. \nOld Marley was dead as a doornail. \nScrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for…I don’t know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor\, his sole administrator\, his sole friend\, his sole mourner. \nScrooge never painted out old Marley’s name\, however. There it yet stood\, years afterwards\, above the warehouse door—Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge “Scrooge\,” and sometimes “Marley.” He answered to both names. It was all the same to him. \nO\, but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone—a squeezing\, wrenching\, grasping\, scraping\, clutching\, covetous old sinner! External heat and cold had little influence on him. No warmth could warm\, no cold could chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he. No falling snow was more intent upon its purpose\, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. \nNobody ever stopped him in the street to say\, with gladsome looks\, “My dear Scrooge\, how are you? When will you come to see me?” No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle\, no children asked him what it was o’clock\, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place of Scrooge. Even the blindmen’s dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on\, would tug their owners into doorways. \nBut what did Scrooge care?! It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life\, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance. \nOnce upon a time of all the good days of the year\, upon a Christmas eve\, old Scrooge sat busy in his countinghouse. It was cold\, bleak\, biting weather\, and he could hear the people in the court outside go wheezing up and down\, beating their hands upon their breasts\, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. The city clocks had only just gone three\, but it was quite dark already. \nThe door of Scrooge’s countinghouse was open\, that he might keep his eye upon his clerk\, who\, in a dismal little cell beyond\, a sort of tank\, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire\, but the clerk’s fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn’t replenish it\, for Scrooge kept the coal box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with his shovel the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore  the clerk put on his white comforter\, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort\, not being a man of strong imagination\, he failed. \nScrooge’s Nephew:  A merry Christmas\, uncle! God save you! \nScrooge:  Bah! Humbug! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  Christmas a humbug\, uncle?! You don’t mean that\, I am sure. \nScrooge:  I do. Out upon merry Christmas! What’s Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older\, and not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in ‘em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I had my will\, every idiot who goes about with “Merry Christmas” on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding\, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  Uncle! \nScrooge:  Nephew\, keep Christmas in your own way\, and let me keep it in mine. \nScrooge’s Nephew:  Keep it? But you don’t keep it. \nScrooge:  Let me leave it alone\, then. Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  There are many things from which I might have derived good\, by which I have not profited\, I dare say\, Christmas among the rest. I have always thought of Christmas time as a good time; a kind\, forgiving\, charitable\, pleasant time; the only time I know of when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely\, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-travelers to the grave\, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore\, uncle\, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket\, I believe that it has done me good\, and will do me good: and I say\, God bless it! \n(Clerk claps.) \nScrooge:  Let me hear another sound from you and you’ll keep your Christmas by losing your situation! You’re quite a powerful speaker\, sir. I wonder you don’t go into Parliament. \nScrooge’s Nephew:  Don’t be angry\, uncle. Come! Dine with us tomorrow. \nScrooge:  I’ll see you…in hell first. \nScrooge’s Nephew:  But why? Why? \nScrooge:  Why did you get married? \nScrooge’s Nephew:  Because I fell in love. \nScrooge:  Because you fell in love! Good afternoon! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  Nay\, uncle\, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now? \nScrooge:  Good afternoon! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends? \nScrooge:  Good afternoon! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  I am sorry\, with all my heart\, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel. But I’ll keep my Christmas humor to the last. So\, a Merry Christmas\, uncle! \nScrooge:  Good afternoon! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  And a Happy New Year! \nScrooge:  Good afternoon! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  (Leaving. To Bob Cratchit.)  Merry Christmas. \nCratchit:  Merry Christmas. \nScrooge:  There’s another fellow\, my clerk\, with fifteen shillings a week\, and a wife and family\, talking about a merry Christmas. He’ll retire to Bedlam. \n(Two portly gentlemen enter.) \nFirst Gentleman:  Scrooge and Marley’s\, I believe. Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge\, or Mr. Marley? \nScrooge:  Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years. He died seven years ago\, this very night. \nSecond Gentleman:  We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner. At this festive season of the year\, Mr. Scrooge\, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute\, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts\, sir. \nScrooge:  Are there no prisons? \nFirst Gentleman:  Plenty of prisons. But under the impression that they scarcely furnish cheer of mind or body to the unoffending multitude\, a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink\, and means of warmth. \nSecond Gentleman:  We choose this time\, because it is a time\, of all others\, when Want is keenly felt\, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for? \nScrooge:  Nothing! \nFirst Gentleman:  You wish to be anonymous? \nScrooge:  I wish to be left alone. Since you ask me what I wish\, gentlemen\, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas\, and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the prisons and the workhouses—they cost enough—and those who are badly off must go there. \nSecond Gentleman:  Many can’t go there. \nFirst Gentleman:  Many would rather die. \nScrooge:  If they had rather die\, they had better do it\, and decrease the surplus population. \nSecond Gentleman:  (Leaving.)  Good day\, sir. \nFirst Gentleman:  Merry Christmas.  \nScrooge:  Bah! Humbug! \nBoth Gentlemen:  (To Cratchit.)  Merry Christmas. \nCratchit:  Merry Christmas. \n(Scrooge and Cratchit return to their work. Scrooge is very pleased with himself. Some time goes by. Scrooge gets off his stool\, which means that it’s time to close up shop. Cratchit snuffs his candle and puts on his hat.) \nScrooge:  You’ll want all day tomorrow\, I suppose? \nCratchit:  If it’s convenient. \nScrooge:  It’s not convenient\, and it’s not fair. If I was to stop half a crown for it\, you’d think yourself mightily ill-used. And yet you don’t think me ill-used when I pay a day’s wages for no work. \nCratchit:  It’s only once a year\, sir. \nScrooge:  A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December! But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here early the next morning. \nCratchit:  I will. \n(Scrooge goes out with a growl\, followed by Bob Cratchit.) \nStoryteller:  The office was closed in a twinkling\, and the clerk went down a slide\, at the end of a lane of boys\, twenty times\, in honor of its being Christmas eve\, and then ran home as hard as he could pelt\, to play at blindman’s bluff. \nScrooge took his usual dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers\, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker’s book\, went home to bed. He double-locked the door\, took off his coat\, put on his nightshirt\, slippers and cap\, and sat down before the fire. It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He had to sit close to it\, and brood over it\, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. \nThen there came a clanking noise\, deep down below\, as if some person were dragging a heavy chain. Then he heard the noise much louder\, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight toward his door. \nScrooge:  It’s humbug! I won’t believe it. \nStoryteller:  His color changed\, though\, when\, without a pause\, it came on through the heavy door\, and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in\, the dying flame leaped up\, as though it cried\, “I know him; Marley’s Ghost!” and fell again. \nThe same face\, the very same. Marley in his usual waistcoat\, tights and boots. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long\, and wound around him like a tail; it was made of cash-boxes\, keys\, padlocks\, ledgers\, deeds and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent\, so that Scrooge\, observing him\, and looking through his waistcoat\, could see the two buttons on his coat behind. \nThough he looked the phantom through and through\, and saw it standing before him—though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes\, he was still incredulous. \nScrooge:  How now?! What do you want with me? \nMarley:  Much! \nScrooge:  Who are you? \nMarley:  Ask me who I was. \nScrooge:  Who were you then? \nMarley:  In life I was your partner\, Jacob Marley. \nScrooge:  Can you…can you sit down? \nMarley:  I can. \nScrooge:  Do it\, then. \nMarley:  You don’t believe in me. \nScrooge:  I don’t. \nMarley:  What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your senses? \nScrooge:  I don’t know. \nMarley:  Why do you doubt your senses? \nScrooge:  Because a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef\, a blot of mustard\, a crumb of cheese\, a fragment of underdone potato. There’s more of gravy than of the grave about you\, whatever you are! \nMarley:  Ahhhhhhh! Man of the worldly mind! Do you believe in me\, or not? \nScrooge:   I do! I do! I must! But…dreadful apparition\, why do you trouble me? Why do spirits walk the earth\, and why do they come to me? \nMarley:  It is required of every man\, that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men\, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life\, it is condemned to do so after death and witness what it cannot share\, but might have shared on earth\, and turned to happiness! Oh\, woe is me! \nScrooge:  You are fettered. Tell me why. \nMarley:  I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will\, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you? Or would you know the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It is a ponderous chain! \nScrooge:  Jacob\, Old Jacob Marley\, tell me more. Speak comfort to me\, Jacob! \nMarley:  I have none to give. I cannot tell you what I would. A very little more is all that is permitted to me. I cannot rest\, I cannot stay\, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our countinghouse—mark me!—in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money-changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me! Oh blind man\, blind man! Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one’s life’s opportunities misused! Yet such was I! Such was I! \nScrooge:  But you were always a good man of business\, Jacob! \nMarley:  Business? Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity\, mercy\, forbearance\, benevolence\, were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business! Hear me! My time is nearly gone. I am here tonight to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring\, Ebenezer. \nScrooge:  You were always a good friend to me. \nMarley:  You will be haunted by Three Spirits. \nScrooge:  Is that the chance and hope you mentioned\, Jacob? I…I think I’d rather not. \nMarley:  Without their visits\, you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Look to see me no more. And look that\, for your own sake\, you remember what has passed between us. \nStoryteller:  It walked backward from him\, and at every step it took\, the window raised itself a little\, so that\, when the apparition reached it\, it was wide open\, and it floated out upon the bleak\, dark night. \nScrooge closed the window\, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. It was double-locked\, as he had locked it with his own hands\, and the bolts were undisturbed. Scrooge tried to say “Humbug!” but stopped at the first syllable. And being\, from the emotion he had undergone\, or the fatigues of the day\, or his glimpse of the invisible world\, or the lateness of the hour\, much in need of repose\, he went straight to bed\, without undressing\, and fell asleep on the instant. \nWhen Scrooge awoke\, it was so dark that\, looking out of bed\, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his chamber—until suddenly the church clock tolled a deep\, dull\, hollow\, melancholy ONE. \nLight flashed up in the room\, and a strange figure appeared: like a child\, and like an old man. Its hair was white\, as if with age\, and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it\, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. It held a branch of fresh green holly in its hand\, and yet its dress was trimmed with summer flowers. But the strangest thing about it was that from the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear jet of light\, by which all this was visible\, and which was doubtless the occasion of its using\, in its duller moments\, a great extinguisher cap\, which it now held under its arm. \nScrooge:  Are you the Spirit\, sir\, whose coming was foretold to me. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  I am. \nScrooge:  Who and what are you? \nGhost of Christmas Past:  I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. \nScrooge:  Long past? \nGhost of Christmas Past:  No. Your past. \nScrooge:  Would you mind putting on your cap? \nGhost of Christmas Past:  What?! Would you so soon put out the light I give? \nScrooge:  No\, no. Of course not. What business brings you here? \nGhost of Christmas Past:  Your welfare. Rise\, and walk with me! (Takes Scrooge by he hand\, leads him to the open window\, and prepares to fly out.) \nScrooge:  I am a mortal\, and liable to fall! \nGhost of Christmas Past:  Bear a touch of my hand upon your heart\, and you shall be upheld in more than this! \nStoryteller:  They flew through the air until they came to a country road\, with fields on either side. The city had entirely vanished. It was a clear\, cold\, winter day\, with snow upon the ground. \nScrooge:  Good Heaven! I was bred in this place. I was a boy here! \nGhost of Christmas Past:  You remember the way? \nScrooge:  Remember it? I could walk it blindfolded. \nStoryteller:  They walked along the road—Scrooge recognizing every gate\, and post\, and tree—until a little market town appeared in the distance.  Some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs\, who called to other boys in country gigs and carts\, driven by farmers. All these boys were in great spirits\, and shouted to each other\, until the broad fields were so full of merry music that the crisp air laughed to hear it. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  These things are but shadows of the things that have been; they will have no consciousness of us. \nStoryteller:  But Scrooge knew and named them\, every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them? Why was he filled with gladness when he heard them wish each other Merry Christmas\, as they parted at cross-roads and bye-ways\, for their several homes? What was merry Christmas to Scrooge? Out upon merry Christmas! What good had it ever done him? \nGhost of Christmas Past:  The school is not quite deserted. A solitary child\, neglected by his friends\, is left there still. \nStoryteller:  They went to a door at the back of the house. It opened before them\, and disclosed a long\, bare\, melancholy room\, made barer still by the lines of plain desks. At one of these a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire. Scrooge sat down and looked at his poor forgotten self as he used to be. \nScrooge:  Poor boy. I wish…but it’s too late now. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  What is the matter? \nScrooge:  Nothing\, nothing. There was a boy singing a Christmas carol at my door last night. I should like to have given him something: that’s all. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  Let us see another Christmas!  (The boy Scrooge stands up and is now some years older. Scrooge’s younger sister comes in.) \nScrooge’s Sister:  Dear\, dear brother! I have come to bring you home\, dear brother! To bring you home\, home\, home! Home\, for good and all. Home\, for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be\, that home’s like Heaven! He spoke so gently to me one night when I was going to bed\, that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home. And he said “Yes!\,” you should. And he sent me a coach to bring you\, and you are never to come back here. And we’ll be together all the Christmas long\, and have the merriest time in all the world! \nGhost of Christmas Past:  Always a delicate creature\, your sister\, whom a breath might have withered. But she had a large heart! \nScrooge:  So she had. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  She died a woman\, and had\, as I think\, children. \nScrooge:  One child. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  True\, your nephew! \nScrooge:  Yes. \nStoryteller:  They were now in the busy thoroughfare of a city\, and it was Christmas time again\, but it was evening\, and the streets were lighted up. The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  Do you know this place? \nScrooge:  Know it?! I was apprenticed here!  (They go in. Fezziwig sits at his desk.)   \nScrooge:  Why\, its old Fezziwig! Bless his heart\, it’s Fezziwig\, alive again! \nFezziwig:  (Gets up.) Yo ho\, there! Ebenezer! Dick! (Dick Wilkins and young Scrooge come in.) \nScrooge:  Dick Wilkins\, to be sure. My old fellow-‘prentice\, bless me. Yes\, there he is. He was very much attached to me\, was Dick. Poor Dick! Dear\, dear! \nFezziwig:  Yo ho\, my boys! No work tonight. Christmas Eve\, Dick. Christmas\, Ebenezer! Let’s have the shutters up\, before a man can say Jack Robinson! Clear away\, my lads\, and let’s have lots of room here! (They bustle about. The room fills up with guests\, including Mrs. Fezziwig and their three daughters. Maybe the piano player could play a tune\, while a lively dance is improvised.) \nStoryteller:  There were more dances\, and more dances\, and there was cake\, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast\, and there were mince-pies and plenty of beer. When the clock struck eleven this domestic ball broke up. (Everyone says “Merry Christmas” to the Fezziwigs as they leave.) \nGhost of Christmas Past:  A small matter\, to make these silly folks so full of gratitude. \nScrooge:  Small? \nGhost of Christmas Past:  He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money—three or four\, perhaps. \nScrooge:  It isn’t that\, Spirit.He has the power to render us happy or unhappy\, to make our service light or burdensome\, a pleasure or a toil. The happiness he gives is quite as great as if it cost a fortune. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  What is the matter? \nScrooge:  Nothing particular. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  Something\, I think. \nScrooge:  No\, no. I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk just now. That’s all. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  My time grows short. Quick! (The young Scrooge comes back in and sits next to a young woman.) \nYoung Woman:  (Tears in her eyes.) It matters little to you. Another idol has displaced me. If it can comfort you in time to come\, as I would have tried to do\, I have no just cause to grieve. \nScrooge:  What idol has displaced you? \nYoung Woman:  A golden one. You fear the world too much. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one\, until the master-passion\, Gain\, engrosses you. \nScrooge:  What then? Even if I have grown so much wiser\, what then? I am not changed towards you. Have I ever sought release from our engagement? \nYoung Woman:  In words\, no. Never. \nScrooge:  In what\, then? \nYoung Woman: In a changed nature.If you were free today\, can I believe that you would choose a poor girl? Or that you would not repent that choice? And so\, I release you. With a full heart\, for the love of him you once were. May you be happy in the life you have chosen. (She leaves.) \nScrooge:  Spirit\, show me no more! Take me home. Why do you delight to torture me? \nGhost of Christmas Past:  I told you these were shadows of the things that have been. Do not blame me that they are what they are. \nScrooge:  Leave me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer! \nStoryteller:  Scrooge seized the extinguisher cap and pressed it down upon the Spirit’s head. The flame went out. The Spirit dropped down. \nScrooge was conscious of being exhausted\, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness. He was back in his own bedroom. He fell into a heavy sleep. \nWhen the clock struck again\, Scrooge was suddenly wide awake: waiting for the next Spirit to appear. After a while\, when a Spirit failed to materialize\, he notice a great light coming from the adjoining room. He shuffled in his slippers into the next room and saw that it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green that it seemed like a grove. Leaves of holly\, mistletoe and ivy reflected the light\, as if many little mirrors had been scattered there. A mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney: a blaze never known in Scrooge’s time! \nHeaped upon the floor\, to form a kind of throne\, were turkeys\, geese\, game\, great joints of meat\, sucking pigs\, long wreaths of sausages\, mince pies\, plum puddings\, barrels of oysters\, red-hot chestnuts\, cherry-cheeked apples\, juicy oranges\, luscious pears\, immense twelfth-night cakes\, and great bowls of punch. In easy state upon this couch there sat a Giant\, glorious to see\, who bore a glowing torch\, shaped like Plenty’s horn\, that shed its light upon Scrooge\, as he came peeping round the door. \nGhost of Christmas Present:  Come in! Come in and know me better\, man! I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me! \nStoryteller:  He was clothed in a simple green robe\, bordered with white fur. His feet were bare\, and on his head he wore a holly wreath\, set here and there with shining icicles. He had a genial face\, sparkling eyes\, and a joyful disposition. \nGhost of Christmas Present:  You have never seen the like of me before! \nScrooge:  Never. \nGhost of Christmas Present:  Have never walked forth with the members of my family who came before me? \nScrooge:  I don’t think so. I’m afraid not. Have you many brothers\, Spirit? \nGhost of Christmas Present:  More than eighteen hundred. \nScrooge: A tremendous family to provide for! \nGhost of Christmas Present:  Come! Touch my robe! (Scrooge does so.) \nStoryteller:  The room and all its contents vanished instantly. They stood in the city streets upon a snowy Christmas morning. \nScrooge and the Ghost passed on\, invisible\, straight to the home of Scrooge’s clerk\, Bob Cratchit. \nFirst they encountered Mrs. Cratchit\, dressed in a simple gown\, adorned with ribbons\, which are cheap\, but make a goodly show for sixpence. She was assisted in laying the cloth upon the table by her oldest daughter\, Belinda Cratchit. Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes. And now two smaller Cratchits\, a boy and a girl\, came tearing in. They danced about the table while Master Peter blew the fire\, until the slow potatoes\, bubbling up\, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled. \nMrs. Cratchit:  What has ever got your father? And your brother\, Tiny Tim? \nTwo Young Cratchits:  There’s father coming! \nStoryteller:  In came Bob\, the father\, with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for poor Tiny Tim\, he bore a little crutch\, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame! The two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim off to the wash-house that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper. \nMrs. Cratchit:  And how did little Tim behave? \nBob Cratchit:  As good as gold\, and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful\, sitting by himself so much\, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me\, coming home\, that he hoped the people saw him in the church\, because he was a cripple\, and it might be pleasant to them to remember\, upon Christmas day\, who made the lame beggars walk and the blind see. He’s growing strong and hearty. \nStoryteller:  Tiny Tim came back in with his brother and sister. Bob compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons\, and stirred it round and round and put it on the hob to simmer. Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose\, with which they soon returned in high procession. \nSuch a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds—a feathered phenomenon—and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the applesauce; Bob sat Tiny Tim beside him at the corner of the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody\, not forgetting themselves\, and mounting upon their posts\, crammed spoons into their mouths\, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on\, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause\, as Mrs. Cratchit\, looking slowly all along the carving knife\, prepared to plunge it in the breast. But when she did\, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth\, one murmur of delight arose all around the board\, and even Tiny Tim\, excited by the two young Cratchits\, beat on the table with the handle of his knife\, and feebly cried: \nTiny Tim:  Hurrah! \nStoryteller:  There never was such a goose! Its tenderness and flavor\, size and cheapness\, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by applesauce and mashed potatoes\, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family. Everyone had had enough\, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now\, the plates being changed\, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone to take the pudding up and bring it in. \nIn half a minute Mrs. Cratchit returned\, flushed\, but smiling proudly\, with the pudding\, like a speckled cannonball\, so hard and firm\, blazing in half a quarter of ignited brandy\, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck on top. \nO\, a wonderful pudding! Everyone had something to say about it\, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing. \nAt last the dinner was all done\, the cloth was cleared\, the hearth was swept\, and the fire made up. \nBob Cratchit:  A  Merry Christmas to us all\, my dears.  God bless us! \nTiny Tim:  God bless us\, every one! \nStoryteller:  He sat very close to his father’s side\, upon his little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his\, as if he loved the child\, and wished to keep him by his side\, and dreaded that he might be taken from him. \nScrooge:  Spirit\, tell me if Tiny Tim will live. \nGhost of Christmas Present:  I see a vacant seat in the chimney corner\, and a crutch without an owner\, carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future\, none other of my race will find him here. What then? If he be like to die\, he had better do it\, and decrease the surplus population. \nScrooge:  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… \nGhost of Christmas Present:  Man—if man you be in heart—forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is and where it is. \nBob Cratchit:  (Toasting.)  To Mr. Scrooge: the Founder of the Feast! \nMrs. Cratchit:  The Founder of the Feast\, indeed! I wish I had him here! I’d give him a piece of my mind to feast upon\, and I hope he’d have a good appetite for it! \nBob Cratchit:  My dear\, the children! Christmas day! \nMrs. Cratchit:  It should be Christmas day\, I am sure\, on which one drinks the health of such an odious\, stingy\, hard\, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know he is\, Robert! Nobody knows it better than you do\, poor fellow! \nBob Cratchit:  My dear…Christmas day! \nMrs. Cratchit: I’ll drink his health for your sake and for the day’s\, not for his. Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy New Year! He’ll be very merry and happy\, I have no doubt! \nStoryteller:  The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness in it. Scrooge was the ogre of the family. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party\, which was not dispelled for a full five minutes. \nBut after it had passed away\, they were ten times merrier than before\, from the mere relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done with. All this time the chestnuts and the jug went round and round. \nTiny Tim:  God Bless Us\, Every One! \nStoryteller:  They were not a handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoes were far from being waterproof; their clothes were scanty. But they were happy\, grateful\, pleased with one another\, and contented with the time. And when they faded\, and looked happier yet in the bright sprinklings of the Spirit’s torch at parting\, Scrooge had his eye upon them\, and especially on Tiny Tim\, until the last. \nNext\, Scrooge was surprised to find himself at his nephew’s\, in a bright\, dry\, gleaming room\, with the Spirit standing smiling by his side\, and looking at that same nephew with approving affability. \nFred:  He said that Christmas is a humbug! He believed it\, too! \nFred’s Wife:  More shame for him\, Fred. \nFred:  He’s a comical old fellow: that’s the truth. I am sorry for him. I couldn’t be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself\, always. He takes it into his head to dislike us\, and he won’t come and dine with us. What’s the consequence? He loses some pleasant moments\, which could do him no harm. But I mean to give him the same chance every year\, whether he likes it or not. \nStoryteller:  Now the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by the nephew. Then Scrooge and the Spirit were again upon their travels. \nMuch they saw\, and far they went\, and many homes were visited\, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds\, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands\, and they were close at home; by struggling men\, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty\, and it was rich. In almshouse\, hospital and jail\, in misery’s every refuge\, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door and barred the Spirit out\, he left his blessing\, and taught Scrooge his precepts. \nIt was a long night\, if it were only a night. It was strange\, too\, that while Scrooge remained unaltered in his outward form\, the Ghost grew older. Scrooge noticed that his hair was grey. \nScrooge:  Are spirits’ lives so short? \nGhost of Christmas Present:  My life upon this globe is very brief. It ends tonight at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near. \nScrooge:  Forgive me\, but I see something strange\, and not belonging to yourself\, protruding from your robe. Is it a foot or a claw? Spirit\, are they yours? \nGhost of Christmas Present:  They are Man’s. And they cling to me. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both—but most of all beware this boy\, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom\, unless the writing be erased. \nScrooge:  Have they no refuge or resource? \nGhost of Christmas Present:  Are there no prisons? \nStoryteller:  The clock struck the hour. Scrooge looked around him for the Ghost\, and saw it no more. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate\, he remembered the prediction of old Jacob Marley\, and\, lifting up his eyes\, beheld a solemn Phantom\, draped and hooded\, coming like a mist along the ground toward him. \nThe Phantom slowly\, gravely\, silently approached. In the air through which this spirit moved\, it seemed to spread gloom and mystery. \nIt was shrouded in a deep black garment\, which concealed its head\, its face\, its form\, and left nothing visible save one outstretched hand. But for this\, it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night\, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded. \nIts mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. The Spirit neither spoke nor moved. \nScrooge:  Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?   \nStoryteller:  The Spirit pointed downward with its hand. \nScrooge:  You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened\, but will happen in the time before us. Is that so\, Spirit? \nStoryteller:  The Spirit inclined its head. That was the only answer he received. \nAlthough well used to the ghostly company by this time\, Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him\, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. \nIt thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror\, to know that behind the dusky shroud there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him\, while he\, though he stretched his own to the utmost\, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black. \nScrooge:  Ghost of the Future\, I fear you more than any specter I have seen! But as I know your purpose is to do me good\, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was\, I am prepared to bear you company\, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me? \nStoryteller:  It gave him no reply. The hand pointed straight before them. \nScrooge:  Lead on! Lead on! The night is waning fast\, and it is precious time to me\, I know. Lead on\, Spirit! \nStoryteller:  They scarcely seemed to enter the city\, for the city rather seemed to spring up about them. But there they were in the heart of it\, amongst the merchants\, who hurried up and down\, and chinked the money in their pockets\, and conversed in groups\, and looked at their watches\, and so forth\, as Scrooge had seen them often do. \nThe Spirit stopped beside one little knot of businessmen. (The Spirit points to them.) \nFirst Businessman:  No\, I don’t know much about it. I only know he’s dead. \nSecond Businessman:  When did he die? \nFirst Businessman:  Last night\, I believe. \nThird Businessman:  Why\, what was the matter with him? I thought he’d never die. \nFirst Businessman:  God knows. \nSecond Businessman:  What has he done with his money? \nFirst Businessman:  I haven’t heard. Left it to the company\, perhaps. He hasn’t left it to me. That’s all I know. \nThird Businessman:  It’s likely to be a very cheap funeral\, for upon my life I don’t know of anybody to go to it. Shall we make up a party and volunteer? \nSecond Businessman:  I don’t mind going if a lunch is provided. But I must be fed. \nStoryteller:  Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the Spirit should attach importance to conversation apparently so trivial. He looked about him in that very place for his own image\, but another man stood in his accustomed corner\, and though the clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there\, he saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes. \nNow he recoiled in terror\, for the scene had changed\, and now he almost touched a bed: a bare uncurtained bed\, on which\, beneath a ragged sheet\, there lay\, plundered and bereft\, unwatched\, unwept\, uncared for\, was the body of a man.  (Phantom points to the head.)   \nThe cover was so carelessly adjusted that the slightest raising of it\, the motion of a finger upon Scrooge’s part\, would have disclosed the face. \nScrooge:  I understand you\, and I would do it if I could. But I have not the power\, Spirit. I have not the power. (Ghost continues to point at the head.) If there is any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this man’s death\, show that person to me\, Spirit\, I beseech you. \nStoryteller:  The Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment\, like a wing\, and\, withdrawing it\, revealed a room by daylight\, where a woman waited. \nShe was expecting someone with anxious eagerness. At length the long-expected knock was heard. She hurried to the door\, and met her husband: a man whose face was careworn and depressed\, though he was young. There was a remarkable expression in it now; a kind of serious delight of which he felt ashamed\, and which he struggled to repress. \nCaroline:  Is it good…or bad? \nHusband:  Bad. \nCaroline:  Then\, we are quite ruined. \nHusband:  No\, there is hope yet\, Caroline. \nCaroline:  If he relents\, there is. Nothing is past hope\, if such a miracle has happened. \nHusband:  He is past relenting. He is dead. \nCaroline:  I am thankful. God forgive me. I’m sorry…To whom will our debt be transferred? \nHusband:  I don’t know. But before that time we shall be ready with the money. We may sleep tonight with light hearts\, Caroline. \nStoryteller:  The only emotion that the Ghost could show him\, caused by the event\, was one of pleasure. \nScrooge:  Let me see some tenderness connected with a death\, or that dark chamber which we left just now will be forever present to me. \nStoryteller:  The Ghost conducted him through several streets with which he was familiar\, and as they went along Scrooge looked here and there to find himself\, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered poor Bob Cratchit’s house\, the dwelling he had visited before\, and found the mother and the children seated round the fire. \nQuiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as still as statues in the corner\, and sat looking up at Peter\, who was reading a book. The mother and her daughter were engaged in sewing. But surely they were very quiet! \nThe mother laid her work upon the table\, and put her hand up to her face. \nMrs. Cratchit:  Your father should be home soon. \nPeter:  He’s late.  But I think he has walked a little slower than he used to\, these last few evenings\, mother. \nMrs. Cratchit:  When he walked with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder\, he walked very fast indeed. But he was very light to carry\, and his father loved him so\, that it was no trouble…no trouble. There’s your father now. (The family rushes to greet Bob Cratchit. He appears very cheerful.) You went today\, then\, Robert? \nBob Cratchit:  Yes\, my dear. I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you’ll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there every Sunday. My little child! My little child! (Sobs.) However and whenever we part from one another\, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim—shall we?—or this first parting that there was among us. \nAll:  Never\, father! \nBob Cratchit:  And I know…I know\, my dears\, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was\, although he was a little child\, we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves\, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it. \nAll:  No\, never\, father! \nBob Cratchit:  I am very happy! I am very happy! \nScrooge:  Specter\, something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. I know it\, but I know not how. Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead. \nStoryteller:  The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him to a dismal\, wretched\, ruinous churchyard. The Spirit stood among the graves and pointed down to one. \nScrooge:  Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point\, answer me one question: Are these shadows of the things that will be\, or are they shadows of things that may be only? \nStoryteller:  Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood. \nScrooge:  Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends\, to which\, if persevered in\, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from\, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me. \nStoryteller:  The Spirit was as immovable as ever. \nScrooge crept towards it\, trembling as he went\, and\, following the finger\, read upon the neglected grave his own name: EBENEZER SCROOGE. \nScrooge:  Am I that man who lay upon the bed? (The Spirit points from the grave to him\, and back to the grave.) No\, Spirit! Oh no\, no! Spirit\, hear me! I am not the man I was. Why show me this if I am past all hope? Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me by an altered life! I will honor Christmas in my heart\, and try to keep it all the year. O\, tell me I may erase the writing on this stone! \nStoryteller:  Holding up his hands in one last prayer to have his fate reversed\, he saw an alteration in the Phantom’s hood and dress. It shrunk\, collapsed\, and dwindled down into…a bedpost. Yes\, and the bedpost was his own! The bed was his own! \nScrooge:  I am here!  The shadows of the things that would have been may be dispelled. They will be! I know they will!  I will live in the past\, the present and the future!  The spirits of all three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh Jacob Marley! Heaven and the Christmas time be praised for this! I say it on my knees\, old Jacob\, on my knees! \nI don’t know what to do! (Laughing.) I am as light as a feather! I am as happy as an angel! I am as merry as a schoolboy! I am as giddy as a drunken man! A Merry Christmas to everybody! A Happy New Year to all the world! \nThere’s the door by which the Ghost of Jacob Marley entered! There’s the corner where the Ghost of Christmas Present sat. It’s all right\, it’s all true\, it all happened! (He laughs.) \nStoryteller:  Really\, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years\, it was a splendid laugh\, a most illustrious laugh. The father of a long\, long line of brilliant laughs. \nScrooge:   I don’t know what day of the month it is. I don’t know how long I’ve been among the spirits. I don’t know anything. I’m quite a baby. Never mind. I don’t care. I’d rather be a baby. \nStoryteller:  The church bells began ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Oh\, glorious\, glorious!   \nRunning to the window\, he opened it and put out his head. No fog\, no mist\, just clear\, bright\, jovial\, stirring cold! Golden sunlight! Heavenly sky! Sweet fresh air! Merry bells! Oh\, glorious\, glorious! \nScrooge:  What’s today? \nBoy:  Huh? \nScrooge:  What’s today\, my fine fellow? \nBoy:  Today?! Why\, CHRISTMAS DAY! \nScrooge:  It’s Christmas Day! I haven’t missed it! The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hello\, my fine fellow! \nBoy:  Hello. \nScrooge:  Do you know the Poulterer’s shop\, over in the next street\, on the corner? \nBoy:  Of course I do! \nScrooge:  An intelligent boy! A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they’ve sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there? Not the little prize turkey… the big one? \nBoy:  The one as big as me? \nScrooge:  What a delightful boy! It’s a pleasure to talk to him. Yes\, the one as big as you! \nBoy:  It’s hanging there now. \nScrooge:  Is it? Go and buy it. \nBoy:  What?! \nScrooge:  Go and buy it and tell ‘em to bring it here. I’ll give them the directions where to take it. Come back with the man and I’ll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes and I’ll give you half a crown! (The boy runs off.) \nI’ll send it to Bob Cratchit’s! He won’t know who sent it. It’s twice the size of Tiny Tim! (The boy and the poulterer’s apprentice arrive.) Here’s the turkey! Hello! How are you? Merry Christmas! \nStoryteller:  It was a turkey! He never could have stood on his legs\, that bird. They would have snapped off like sticks of sealing wax. \nScrooge:  Why\, it’s impossible to carry that to Camden Town. You must have a cab. \nStoryteller:  The chuckle with which he said this\, and the chuckle with which he paid for the turkey\, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab\, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy\, were only exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down\, breathless\, in his chair again\, and chuckled till he cried. \nShaving was not an easy task\, for his hand continued to shake very much. And shaving requires attention\, even when you don’t dance while you are at it. But if he had cut the end of his nose off\, he would have put a piece of sticking-plaster over it\, and been quite satisfied. \nHe dressed himself all in his best\, and at last got out into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth\, and Scrooge looked so irresistibly pleasant that three or four good-humored fellows said: \nGood-humored Fellows:  Good morning\, sir. A Merry Christmas to you. \nScrooge:  Merry Christmas! \nStoryteller:  And Scrooge said often afterwards\, that of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard\, those were the blithest in his ears. \nHe had not gone very far\, when he saw coming toward him the portly gentleman who had walked into his countinghouse the day before. It sent a pang across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met; but he knew what path lay straight before him\, and he took it. \nScrooge:  My dear sir (taking both his hands)\, how do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A Merry Christmas to you\, sir! \nFirst Gentleman:  Mr. Scrooge? \nScrooge:  Yes\, that is my name\, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness…(Scrooge whispers in his ear.) \nFirst Gentleman:  Lord bless me! My dear Mr. Scrooge\, are you serious? \nScrooge:  If you please\, not a farthing less. A great many back-payments are included in it\, I assure you. Will you do me that favor? \nFirst Gentleman:  My dear sir\, I don’t know what to say to so much munifence… \nScrooge:  Don’t say anything. Please come and see me. Will you? \nFirst Gentleman:  I will! \nScrooge:  Thank you. I am much obliged to you. I thank you fifty times. Bless you! \nStoryteller:  Scrooge went to church\, and walked about the streets\, and watched people hurrying to and fro\, and patted children on the head\, and questioned beggars\, and looked down into the kitchens of houses\, and up to the windows\, and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk—that anything—could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew’s house. \nHe passed the door a dozen times before he had the courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash\, and did it: \nScrooge:  Fred! \nFred:  Who is it? \nScrooge:  It’s I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in\, Fred? \nStoryteller:  Let him in?! It’s a mercy he didn’t shake his arm off! He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same. Wonderful party\, wonderful games\, wonderful unanimity\, wonderful happiness! \nBut he was early at the office the next morning! If he could only be there first\, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late! That was the thing he had set his heart upon. \nAnd he did it. The clock struck nine. No Bob. A quarter past. No Bob. Bob was a full eighteen minutes and-a-half late. Scrooge sat with his door wide open\, that he might see him come in. \nBob’s hat was off before he opened the door\, his comforter too.  He was on his stool in a jiffy\, driving away with his pens\, as if he were trying to overtake nine o’clock. \nScrooge:  (Growling.)  What do you mean by coming here at this time of day? \nCratchit:  I’m very sorry\, sir. I’m late. \nScrooge:  Are you? Yes\, I think you are. Come over here. \nCratchit:  It’s only once a year\, sir. It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday\, sir. \nScrooge:  Now\, I’ll tell you what\, my friend. I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore…and therefore…I am going to raise your salary! \nStoryteller:  Bob trembled and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it\, holding him\, and calling to the people in the court for help and a straight-jacket. \nScrooge:  A Merry Christmas\, Bob! A merrier Christmas\, Bob\, my good fellow\, than I have given you for many a year! I’ll raise your salary\, and endeavor to assist your struggling family\, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon over a bowl of hot wassail\, Bob! Make up the fires\, and buy another coal scuttle before you dot another “i\,” Bob Cratchit. \nStoryteller:  Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all\, and infinitely more. And to Tiny Tim\, who did not die\, he was a second father. He became as good a friend\, as good a master\, and as good a man\, as the good old city knew\, or any other good old city\, town\, or borough in the good old world. \nAnd it was always said of him\, that he knew how to keep Christmas well\, if any man alive possessed the knowledge.May that be truly said of all of us! And as Tiny Tim would say: \nTiny Tim:  God Bless Us\, Every One! \n  \n  \n  \n—Charles Dickens
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-12-9-21/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/webp:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/il_794xN.2748042941_nlhj.jpg.webp
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20211212T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20211212T170000
DTSTAMP:20260427T082857
CREATED:20211209T173825Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20211209T173919Z
UID:2509-1639321200-1639328400@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  12/12/21
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nSome stories get better with each telling. This is one of those stories. Charles Dickens used to do public readings of an abridged version of “A Christmas Carol” at this time of year. This is based on his abridged version. On Sunday\, December 12th\, at 3 pm (PST) our Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering will feature a Group Reading of this version of A Christmas Carol. Here’s the link: \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nIt’s gonna be fun! I hope you can join us!  \n  \nMerry Christmas!  \n  \nGod Bless Us Every One! 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-12-12-21/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/webp:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/il_794xN.2748042941_nlhj.jpg.webp
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20211215
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220115
DTSTAMP:20260427T082857
CREATED:20211216T173056Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20211216T173328Z
UID:2513-1639526400-1642204799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness  12/15/21
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \n  December 15\, 2021 \n  \n(Andy Larkin made the design on the first page\, inspired by a verse from the Ātmopadesha Śatakam of Narayana Guru. Below is an English translation of the verse\, along with a brief commentary by Andy.) \n  \nVerse 83 \nAtmopadesha Satakam \n  \nTo break\, to exist and to come into being is the nature of bodies here- \none goes\, another takes its place; \nremaining in the highest\, the Self that knows all these three\, \nthe indivisible one\, is free of modifications. \n  \n  \nAs people with minds conditioned by notions of “before” and “after”\, and “here” and “there”\, we cannot know what lies beyond the twin portals of birth and death\, where such notions no longer apply. Are we confined here? The Guru wants to reassure us. Birth and death are not just gates\, but are twin features of every instant of our lives. The knowing Self is the imperishable ground upon which all these transformations are enacted. The changes we experience\, even those that bring us intense joy or grief\, can actually become constant reminders of our original nature\, the Changeless. \n  \n—Andy Larkin \n* \n  \n Complaint\, Compliant \n  \nSometimes the fix is easy—a small \nadjustment\, and things start looking up\, \nthe storm in you shot through with \nsunlight\, and you can be kind again. \n  \nBreath you used to snipe and slander \ncould be humming as you putter at some \nhealing task\, raking leaves\, making the dishes \ngleam\, jotting notes to friends. \n  \nYou could trade in fear for a fare on the \nlove train. You could shun your trials \nand follow trails into forest birdsong.  \nYou could make bitterness into butterness\,  \n  \nand spread your love around. \n  \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \n(Alex is Editor of Free Spirit\, which is published at Deer Ridge Correctional Institution. This is his essay from the December issue.) \n  \nHeart of Snow \n  \nIt is a simple word\, “love\,” and while it reverberates with pinks and sighs\, I also hear the echo it contains: “of”—that fittingly nested rhyme employed “to indicate distance or direction from\, separation\, deprivation\, etc.”1 That “etc.” wrecks me\, as it seems to indicate that there is an infinite number of ways to be deprived of the people\, places and things we love. \n  \nThe complexities of love usually arise from our attempts to schematize\, to understand love by way of language. For example\, is it really true that a seemingly cold or unfeeling person has a “heart of ice”? Ice may be slow\, ponderous and impermeable\, but it does permit light\, and in this way it is honest. It lasts. Conversely\, a least on paper (poetically speaking)\, a person with a heart of snow seems more gentle\, kind\, capable of love. But snow is fragile\, reflects light\, and is easily muddied. It melts much faster than ice. \n  \nLanguage\, an inherently inefficient technology (unlike a purely utilitarian engine\, or sword\, which has no extraneous parts)\, only hems love in\, but we barrel ahead with letters and poems and avowals anyway. Nevertheless\, I believe that love\, as humans experience it\, would be much less exhilarating without these passionate attempts to encapsulate and communicate it. \n  \nAnd our love\, as it builds\, as we ornament\, qualify it with words\, becomes a tangled thicket trailing behind us\, a world whose heavy beauty\, with each new annexation of the heart\, becomes more capable of destroying us\, until five words—which would have meant nothing before—suddenly mean a great deal: “I don’t love you anymore.” And yet heartbreak is ultimately something we do to ourselves\, because we are its architect\, and because we are blessedly doomed to remember. Love wallops all. \n  \nHow many times have we wished to forget our greatest joys\, simply because they no longer exist except in their capacity to haunt? And how many times have we outlasted our grief\, and counted ourselves lucky to still possess those joys alive within us\, so distant now that they can do us no harm? Daniel Kahneman proposes that “the time people spend dwelling on a memorable moment should be included in its duration.”2 If so\, a kiss\, even a meeting of eyes\, can go on resolving for years\, like a film frozen at its climax\, and the lips finally part\, the eyes look elsewhere\, only as we draw our last breath and take leave of the earth. \n  \n  \n\nRandom House Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary\, Second Edition\, 2001.\nKahneman\, Daniel\, Thinking Fast and Slow\, 2011.\n\n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nThe Gift \nLife is a gift certificate\, \n        many ways of spending it? \nDo I \n        save it to use later\, \n                but for when and what time? \nOr do I \n        spend it little by little\, \n                until it’s gone? \nOr do I \n        throw it away\, \n                knowing not what I spend it on? \n  \n        It is something you cannot change\, \n                after you have spent it all. \n  \n        So think before you spend your gift\, \n                you only have but one. \n  \n  \n© December 14\, 1996 \nJoshua Underhill \n* \n  \n(Jude meditates on Thich Nhat Hanh’s meditation from Your True Home.) \n  \n#294  More Time for What Is Important \n  \nI have some principles I live by. Principles sounds too lofty; let’s say ideas. In no particular order they are: \n\nGive everything ten years to work out—for my stepchildren to love me\, to lose ten pounds\, for my wisteria to bloom; after ten years\, reevaluate and maybe give another ten years.\nWhatever the question\, trees are the answer.\nHate drains you\, love fills you.\nBe happy that you’re not easily offended but try not to be so obtuse to others’ sensitivities. \nLess is more. Progress is overrated. Consumption sucks.\n\n  \nThere are others to expand on at a later time\, but there is one more to talk about in regard to #294: More Time for What Is Important. Every sentence resonates. My summation is Don’t Waste Life! When Thich Nhat Hanh says\, “Time is very precious: every minute every hour counts. We don’t want to throw time away\,” I remember what I say to others: I wish there were two more hours in a day\, two more days in a week\, two more weeks in a month! Think of the things I could do! Find more beautiful mountain meadows. Make more meals for the Ziegler family. Plant another sweet gum  tree for fall. Sleep more nights in the playhouse. Invite little Lily Contreras again for milk and cookies in the playhouse. See\, if I had more hours\, more days\, I could squeeze so much more out of life.  \n  \nThis idea is not just a recent Time-is-running-out-because-I’m-getting-older-by-the-minute thought; I have thought this for as long as I can remember. \n  \nLife is so short! \n  \nLive it! \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \n(These are excerpts from Michel’s meditation journal. The numbers refer to meditations by Thich Nhat Hanh in Your True Home.) \n  \nNovember 3\, 2021  #190 A Wonderful Opportunity \n  \nI enjoy the idea of being a refuge for others. It’s a way to help and to heal the world\, which demands nothing more from me than I’m already doing for my own well-being. I can still develop a proactive aspect also\, but by simply caring for the self—deliberate breathing practice\, being happy\, accepting the reality that is instead of focusing on what I may wish it to be—I can be a happy\, peaceful haven for others around me\, many of whom seem weary from all of their machinations and façade maintenance\, which they believe will provide happiness and safety. I can simply “be” and allow peace to develop around me\, as strife eventually falls away. I’m not being naïve about this. It takes a great deal of time to develop for/around anyone. At the same time\, my efforts to not create my own strife will attract others seeking the same. As I create a world of peace through my choices\, the world I live in will reflect that back to me\, over time. \n  \nNovember 7\, 2021  #191 Love is Understanding \n  \nI have experienced the truth of this teaching. Although I will add\, it has not always been easy to see or accept the understanding. Other times it can be as easy as accepting the axiom: “hurt people\, hurt people.” In this I can often see a (general) cause and from this arises acceptance\, love and compassion…. \n  \nI write this because to develop love from understanding is going to show\, even if one doesn’t set out to do so. It just “leaks” out. Love can’t be contained. No matter how intensely or thoroughly one may attempt to hide or contain it\, love will find its expression in this world. So\, don’t fight it. Let it come out as you feel it is best to share. And rest knowing that: Love does indeed coquer all. A caveat is that it is genuine and altruistic\, not the least bit self-serving\, contrived\, or stifled. Let it loose and let love reign. \n  \nNovember 17\, 2021  #196 A Relaxation Practice \n  \nEveryone can appreciate one of these\, right? It’s so simple and yet very rewarding to do. I only wish I could go to a park\, or a lake\, or a river or stream for a relaxing\, mindful walk. I guess I can go in my mind through memory\, reliving a moment\, or just recalling the river\, lake\, park\, etc.\, and recall the sights and sounds\, while attending to how I experience them (anew) now. I could also relive that moment fully by recalling the physical sensations—the gentle touch of the breeze\, the sounds of the birds in the trees\, the gurgling river\, the light softly filtered by the trees bathing my “moment\,” the pungent aroma of nature\, and even the body sensations that ground me in the moment. I wish I could share this memory with each one\, but I’m certain that everyone has a relaxing memory to recall. \n  \nNovember 18\, 2021  #197 Elegant Silence \n  \nI agree. I have had an experience of this. It’s calming. In a chaotic world\, wherever one lives\, having a retreat\, of sorts\, in the mind\, where one may go to experience cessation of noise…can be very rewarding. Don’t take my word for it. Just start a daily practice\, focus on the natural uncontrolled breath\, and watch thoughts as they float by consciousness as clouds\, without attaching or grasping onto them. With time\, the mind quiets\, after a habit is stabilized\, and you’ll notice elegance. Don’t “look” for it. It may only be a glimpse. Or\, something to notice after it happened. Seeking and finding aren’t the point. Being open and available to what “is” is the goal\, and even that is not an “end\,” but just a beginning of learning to just “be”—whatever may come. It’s a type of flow—like floating a river instead of resisting it. \n  \nNovember 25\, 2021  Thanks Giving Day!  #199 Driving Lesson \n  \nToday is an amazing day! I’m alive! I woke up again. I’m sort of like the rooster in the latest Peter Rabbit movie\, exclaiming surprise and joy at being alive to see another day. I have much to be thankful for\, such as: family and friends and comrades in the prison\, too!….I’m housed in a safe\, warm space where I can communicate with others for my needs\, as well as for social contact and mental wellness. I have food to enjoy\, and even “special” foods for today…. \n  \n—Michael Deforge \n* \n  \n(Last year about this time\, my friend Rocky Hutchinson was in segregation. I wrote him a “meditation letter” in the hope that it would be helpful to him in getting through a difficult time. Here it is:) (JS) \n  \nDecember 26\, 2020 \n  \nDear Rocky \n  \nThinking of you this morning. I start each day with inner stillness. It seems to me that it would be good for you to start your day by being still. And throughout each day to find moments of peace and stillness. \nThis letter will be a kind of guided meditation. \nSit quietly. Comfortably. Eyes open. Notice breath. Body. See what’s around you\, but don’t name it\, or think about it. Just observe. \nBreath. No past. No problems. No worries. No Rocky. \nNo past. No future. Breath. \nThe present moment is a wonderful moment. I am alive. I breathe. I see with my eyes.  \nWhen I close my eyes\, the world disappears. When I open them\, it reappears. Wonderful! \nCalm. Peace. Quiet. \nThoughts arise. Say: “Thank you. No thank you.” \nBack to stillness. Back to breath. \nWhen you drop a pebble into a pool\, it makes little ripples. After a while the surface of the pool is still. Thoughts are like those pebbles. Thoughts are not bad. All thoughts are just thoughts. Happy thoughts\, sad thoughts\, are just thoughts. In between the thoughts is perfect emptiness. Perfect fullness. \nSitting still\, there are no problems. There are no worries. Each moment of stillness is a vacation from being Rocky. From the past. From guilt. From shame. From pride. \nThe future has not arrived. It never arrives. The future is uncertain. Everything is always changing. We don’t know what will happen. In this moment we can bless the day. Say thank you for our breath. For the gift of life. For the gift of awareness. \nIn silence\, we are free. In silence\, a feeling of boundless being. Even if the silence is just for a few seconds\, it nourishes us. And so\, we return to it again and again. Whenever we can. \nAllow thought and language to fall away. Just be. Be without a boundary. Be without beginning or end. No past. No future. Awake. Aware.  \nThoughts come and go. Observe them like clouds\, floating by in the sky. The brain is used to being very active—to thinking and imagining one thing after another. Allow it to slowly\, slowly quiet down. To have a rest. \nNotice how stupid and repetitive all the thoughts are. How useless. The mind is like a noisy radio playing terrible music and dumb advertisements all day long. Gently turn down the volume. Gently turn it off. Breathe. \nAwake. Aware. No boundary. No inside or out. No here or there. No ideas. No memories. No worries. \nEverything\, without exception\, is miraculous. This moment\, perfect. All my stories are just stories. All my thoughts are just thoughts. Watch the thoughts come and go\, like clouds floating by in the sky. Return again and again to stillness. To the peace which passeth understanding.  \nBless the day. The present moment is a wonderful moment. It has no beginning or end. \n* \nWell that’s about it for that. \nI think it would also be good to read the Hsin Hsin Ming slowly every day\, in a meditative way. It only makes sense in the context of meditation. You could learn it by heart. It is a doorway to freedom. \nMeditation and mindfulness and silence are part of the dance of life. Without inner peace\, life becomes confusing and overwhelming. All our fears become magnified. We torture ourselves. We become depressed. And anxious. Our thoughts drive us mad. \nAs you water the seeds of inner peace\, it grows—and becomes stronger every day. With a sense of well-being and quiet joy you can face all the problems and challenges of life.  \nIn silence\, problems are dissolved. They don’t arise.  \nPlease stay safe. Always choose the option that is the safest one.  \nTake good care of yourself. You are a good person. You have a loving heart. \nWater the seeds of peace\, love\, happiness and understanding. Don’t water seeds of anger\, hatred or fear. \nThis day is a perfect day. Don’t waste this precious day being miserable. \nPractice the Metta Prayer for yourself and for others: \nMay I be happy. \nMay I be well in body and mind. \nMay I be peaceful and at ease. \nMay I live in love. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \n(Deborah sent two short pieces from Raids on the Unspeakable by Thomas Merton\, and a poem she wrote.) \n  \nRain and the Rhinoceros \n  \nLet me say this before rain becomes a utility that they can plan and distribute for money. By “they” I mean the people who cannot understand that rain is a festival\, who do not appreciate its gratuity\, who think that what has no price has no value\, that what cannot be sold is not real\, so that the only way to make something actual is to place it on the market. The time will come when they will sell you even your rain. At the moment it is still free\, and I am in it. I celebrate its gratuity and its meaninglessness. \n  \nThe rain I am in is not like the rain of cities. It fills the woods with an immense and confused sound. It covers the flat roof of the cabin and its porch with insistent and controlled rhythms. And I listen\, because it reminds me again and again that the whole world runs by rhythms I have not yet learned to recognize\, rhythms that are not those of the engineer. \n  \nI came up here from the monastery last night\, sloshing through the cornfield\, said Vespers\, and put some oatmeal on the Coleman stove for supper. It boiled over while I was listening to the rain and toasting a piece of bread at the log fire. The night became very dark. The rain surrounded the whole cabin with its enormous virginal myth\, a whole world of meaning\, of secrecy\, of silence\, of rumor. Think of it: all that speech pouring down\, selling nothing\, judging nobody\, drenching the thick mulch of dead leaves\, soaking the trees\, filling the gullies and crannies of the wood with water\, washing out the places where men have stripped the hillside! What a thing it is to sit absolutely alone\, in the forest\, at night\, cherished by this wonderful\, unintelligible\, perfectly innocent speech\, the most comforting speech in the world\, the talk that rain makes by itself all over the ridges\, and the talk of the watercourses everywhere in the hollows! \n  \nNobody started it\, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long as it wants\, this rain. As long as it talks I am going to listen. (pp. 9-10) \n  \n  \nLetter to an Innocent Bystander \n  \nThe true solutions are not those which we force upon life in accordance with our theories\, but those which life itself provides for those who dispose themselves to receive the truth. Consequently our task is to dissociate ourselves from all who have theories which promise clear-cut and infallible solutions\, and to mistrust all such theories\, not in a spirit of negativism and defeat\, but rather trusting life itself\, and nature\, and if you will permit me\, God above all. For since man has decided to occupy the place of God he has shown himself to be by far the blindest\, the cruelest\, and pettiest and most ridiculous of all the false gods. We can call ourselves innocent only if we refuse to forget this\, and if we also do everything we can to make others realize it. (p. 61) \n  \n—Thomas Merton \n  \n  \nWhat Do I Know? \n  \nClosing my eyes\, \na silent darkness\, \nlight \nat the edges. \nMy breath moves \nup and down\, \nholding each moment\, \ninhalation \nthen release. \n  \nThe human heart \nis quixotic\, \nmalleable\, \nalmost like a berry \nin the palm of my hand. \n  \nIn my ears\, \na deeper space \nthat stretches out\,  \na disappearing \nreverberation. \n  \nWe touch nothingness. \n  \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \n(Katie Radditz shares two poems and some of her thoughts:) \n  \nIn Celebration of the Winter Solstice  \n  \nDo not be afraid of the darkness.\nDark is the rich fertile earth\nthat cradles the seed\, nourishing growth.\nDark is the soft night that cradles us to rest.\nOnly in darkness\ncan stars shine across the vastness of space.\nOnly in darkness\nis the moon’s dance so clear.\nThere is mystery woven in the dark quiet hours.\nThere is magic in the darkness.  \n  \nDo not be afraid.\nWe are born of this magic.\nIt fills our dreams\nthat root\, unravel and reweave themselves\nin the shelter of the deep dark night.\nThe dark has its own hue\,\nits own resonance\, its own breath.\nIt fills our soul\,\nnot with despair\, but with promise.\nDark is the gestation of our deep and knowing self.\nDark is the cave where we rest and renew our soul.\nWe are born of the darkness\,\nand each night we return\nto the deep moist womb of our beginnings.  \n  \nDo not be afraid of the darkness\,\nfor in the depth of that very darkness\ncomes a first glimpse of our own light\,\nthe pure inner light of love and knowing.\nAs it glows and grows\, the darkness recedes.\nAs we shed our light\, we shed our fear\,\nand revel in the wonder of all that is revealed.  \n  \nSo\, do not rush the coming of the sun.\nDo not crave the lengthening of the day.\nCelebrate the darkness.\nHere and now. A time of richness. A time of joy.  \n  \n—Stephanie Noble  \n  \nStephanie Noble is an insight meditation teacher\, author and board member of the Buddhist Insight Network. Many resources are on her website.  \n  \nThay encourages us to nourish those seeds underground (he calls it\, “our store consciousness”); look deeply and heal through touching those feelings you wish to grow. This is a good time to meditate\, on Loving-Kindness\, toward ourselves as well as others : \n  \nMay I be at ease\, \nMay I know the light of my True Nature \nMay I be healed \nMay I be a source of healing for All Beingss \nMay I be at Peace \n  \nThis meditation can sooth\, be repeated for “you” and “we.” Weekly\, this past year\, I have meditated with a small\, open group and felt a shift in some of those blocked places within. Always\, i feel connected with you all\, my extended love-in community. In the dark time that is also the time of giving\, may our hearts remain open!    \n  \nlove\, katie \n  \nHere is a parting gift from poet Robert Bly\, a poem that embraces grief as he embraces being alive.   \n  \nKEEPING OUR SMALL BOAT AFLOAT \n  \nSo many blessings have been given to us\nDuring the first distribution of light\, that we are\nAdmired in a thousand galaxies for our grief. \n  \nDon’t expect us to appreciate creation or to\nAvoid mistakes. Each of us is a latecomer\nTo the earth\, picking up wood for the fire. \n  \nEvery night another beam of light slips out\nFrom the oyster’s closed eye. So don’t give up hope\nthat the door of mercy may still be open. \n  \nSeth and Shem\, tell me\, are you still grieving\nOver the spark of light that descended with no\nDefender near into the Egypt of Mary’s womb? \n  \nIt’s hard to grasp how much generosity\nIs involved in letting us go on breathing\,\nWhen we contribute nothing valuable but our grief. \n  \nEach of us deserves to be forgiven\, if only for\nOur persistence in keeping our small boat afloat\nWhen so many have gone down in the storm. \n  \n  \n— Robert Bly\, first Poet Laureate of Minnesota (December 23\, 1926-November 21\, 2021)
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-12-15-21/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/0-18.jpeg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20211223
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220106
DTSTAMP:20260427T082857
CREATED:20211223T220544Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20211223T220725Z
UID:2521-1640217600-1641427199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  12/23/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nDecember 23\, 2021 \n  \nQuite a long time ago\, I adapted this short story by Fyodor Dostoevsky and performed it. I hope you enjoy it! (J.S.) \n  \n  \nDream of a Ridiculous Man \n  \nI’m ridiculous. Some people think I’m crazy. Which is better\, in a way\, except that they also think I’m ridiculous. But I don’t mind. I love everyone. I’ll tell you why. See\, that’s what I want to talk to you about. About why I love you. Even though I don’t know you. Even if you laugh at me. I’d laugh too–not exactly at myself\, but just to join in–but I feel so sad when I look at you. Because you don’t know the truth. And I do. It’s hard being the only one who knows the truth.  \n  \nI used to feel depressed about seeming ridiculous. Not seeming. Being. I’ve always been ridiculous\, and I think I’ve known it since the day I was born. Well\, for sure by the time I went to school. The more I learned\, the more I understood that I was ridiculous. Life was just like school in that respect. Everyone always laughed at me. But nobody ever suspected that if there was one person on earth who knew better than anybody else that I was ridiculous\, it was me! And what really irritated me was that nobody knew that I knew. But that was my own fault. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone. I was too proud. My pride was so strong that if I had confessed to anyone that I was ridiculous\, I think I would have blown out my brains the same evening. As a kid\, I lived in constant fear that one day I would break down and tell one of the other kids. But as I got older I became a lot calmer for some reason. I don’t know… Maybe it was because I was becoming very disheartened about something that I couldn’t do anything about\, which was that I was slowly but surely coming to the rather cheerless conclusion that nothing in the whole world made any difference. This idea had been creeping up on me for a long time\, but I became fully convinced of it only last year. All of a sudden. I suddenly felt that it made no difference to me whether the world existed or whether nothing existed at all. I became acutely conscious that nothing mattered. I thought: probably things had mattered in the past. But as I thought about it more I realized that things had not really mattered in the past\, they only seemed to. I became quite certain that nothing would matter in the future either. At that point I stopped being angry with people\, and almost stopped noticing them altogether. I would be walking along and I would run into people! And not because I was lost in thought–what would I be…? I didn’t have anything to think about. I had more or less stopped thinking by that time. It made no difference. Not that I had everything figured out. Far from it. I had no idea what the hell was going on. I didn’t understand anything. But nothing made any difference and so all the things I used to worry about just sort of faded away.  \n  \nAnd\, well\, it was only after that that I learned the truth. I learned the truth last November. The third of November\, to be exact. It was a gray\, depressing evening. Cold and rainy. I was walking home. It was late. And I remember thinking: “God\, this is a miserable night.” The rain was that kind of rain that is hostile\, the kind of rain that is deliberately trying to make you feel miserable. Then the rain stopped\, but that was even worse because everything was just so soggy\, and it seemed colder than when it had been raining. I was thinking that it wouldn’t be so depressing if the streetlights weren’t on. They only made it worse by illuminating everything.  \n  \nI looked up at the sky. It was very dark. There were clouds that had torn wispy edges. The patches of sky between the clouds were deep black. All of a sudden I noticed a little star in one of those patches. I stopped walking and just stood there\, looking at it. Because that little star gave me an idea: I made up my mind to kill myself that night.  \n  \nI had been planning to kill myself for a couple of months. And even though I’m always broke I had bought a nice little gun and loaded it. But two months had gone by and it was still lying in the drawer. I was waiting for the right moment. I was completely indifferent to everything and I was waiting for a moment when I didn’t feel indifferent so I could kill myself. Yeah\, I know…sounds stupid…  \n  \nOkay. So…I was standing there looking at the sky. And all of a sudden this little girl grabbed me by the coat sleeve. She was\, I don’t know\, maybe about eight years old. She was completely soaked. She was pulling at my arm and trying to say something. But I couldn’t tell what because she was shivering and sobbing. You know how it is when kids try to talk when they haven’t finished crying yet? I looked down at her\, but I didn’t say anything. Then I pulled my arm away and kept walking. But she ran after me and caught me and was pulling at my coat. She was very frightened about something…incoherent. All I could make out was something about her mother. Her mother was dying or was in some very bad situation. And the little girl had run out to find someone to help. But I didn’t go with her. At first I told her to go find a policeman. But she just held me tighter and wouldn’t let go. Then I got angry and shouted at her. And she let go of me and just stood there. I think she was too stunned to even cry. Then she saw someone coming across the street and ran to him.  \n  \nI went back to my apartment. It’s pretty depressing. The wallpaper is this ugly color of green\, but it’s so grimy you can hardly tell what color it’s supposed to be. It’s peeling off the walls. The carpet is filthy. Whoever lived there before me must have had a lot of cats\, because the carpet and the furniture have the unmistakable smell of cat piss. Plaster is falling off the ceiling. The guy upstairs keeps having problems with his toilet. I don’t know what you’d have to do to get the landlady to fix anything. I mentioned to her once that the furniture smelled like cat piss\, and she said: “If you don’t like it\, you can move out.” And that was the end of that conversation. So\, anyway\, my apartment is pretty depressing. But it’s cheap. I sat down at my desk and lit a candle. I prefer candlelight. I don’t want to have to look at what a dump I live in. I sat there. Next door they were making lots of noise. As usual. The walls are paper thin. Sometimes I can hear my neighbors having sex. But my other neighbor is this big dirty guy with a beard. I think he sells drugs because people are always coming and going all night long. His regular friends like to drink beer. And they get into fights a lot. Usually they just shout at each other\, but sometimes they get into real fights. One of them put his fist through the wall once\, right into my apartment. The landlady doesn’t say anything because she’s afraid of him. I’ve seen this guy drunk on the street\, asking people for money. But I don’t mind having him for a neighbor. He doesn’t bother me. I just ignore him. And he ignores me. I don’t care how many of them there are in that room or how much noise they make. I don’t even hear them after a while. I sit up all night in my armchair–doing nothing. I only read in the daytime. At night I just sit without even thinking about anything. Well\, sometimes thoughts sort of wander in and out of my mind. By morning the candle has burned out.  \n  \nSo\, I sat down at my desk and took the gun out of the drawer. I remember asking myself: “Is this it?” And I said to myself: “It is!” I was going to shoot myself. I knew for certain that I would shoot myself that night. The only thing I didn’t know was how much longer I would go on sitting there before I shot myself. And I would have shot myself\, if it hadn’t been for the little girl.  \n  \nSee\, nothing made any difference to me\, but I could still feel pain\, for instance. I mean\, if someone had hit me\, it would hurt. Same with feelings. I could feel pity\, just like I used to do when things did make a difference to me. I felt pity for that little girl while she was pulling at my coat and sobbing\, which didn’t make sense\, given what I’d just decided. And I continued to feel sorry for her even after I got home. As I sat at my desk I couldn’t get her out of my mind. And that irritated me. I hadn’t been so upset in…I don’t know how long. And all these thoughts were banging around in my head. Like: “As long as I am a human being and not nothing\, and until I cease to exist\, I’m alive\, and able to suffer\, be angry\, feel ashamed. Okay. But\, on the other hand\, if I’m going to kill myself in a couple hours\, why should I care about that little girl\, or about shame\, or anything else? I’m going to become nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m going to completely cease to exist\, and the whole world along with me\, so shouldn’t that have some slight effect on my feelings of pity for that little girl?” Why did I shout at her? It was because I was angry at the fact that she was making me feel. Why should I feel anything? Why should it matter if I’m kind or cruel if I’m going to be extinct in two hours?  \n  \nAs I sat there all these questions were driving me crazy. Before I could answer the first one\, another would come up. And another and another. Do your thoughts ever come so fast that you can’t keep up with them? Like\, I wondered: what if I had lived before on the Moon or Mars and had done something so shameful that you can hardly imagine? Y’know\, like you sometimes experience in a nightmare. Something just unbearable. And if afterwards I found myself on Earth and I remembered what I had done on the other planet–and I knew that I would never go back there–would I feel shame when I looked from the Earth to the Moon\, (or Mars\, or whatever)\, or would I feel that it made no difference to me? I mean\, the questions were completely useless! The gun was lying on the desk in front of me and I knew I was going to…use it\, but I couldn’t get the thoughts out of my mind. It seemed to me that I couldn’t die until I had figured something out. The little girl\, in fact\, saved me\, because by asking these questions I put off my execution.  \n  \nThen I fell asleep\, sitting in my armchair. I had never done that before.  I fell asleep without being aware that I was doing it. I dreamed a dream. It was the third of November. People make fun of me: they say it was only a dream. But it revealed the truth to me\, so I don’t care if it was a dream. Once you’ve realized the truth\, you know it’s the truth. It was just a dream. Okay. But I was about to commit suicide. And my dream saved my life and changed it.  \n  \nI dreamed that I picked up the gun and pointed it straight at my heart. My heart\, not my head. I always thought I would shoot myself in the head. I aimed the gun at my chest\, paused for a second or two\, and pulled the trigger.  \n  \nY’know how in a dream sometimes you fall from a great height\, or are being murdered or beaten\, but you don’t feel any pain? That’s how it was. I didn’t feel any pain\, but everything was suddenly extinguished\, and a terrible darkness descended all around me. It was like I had become blind. And I couldn’t speak. I was lying on my back. I saw nothing. I couldn’t move. People came near and they were shouting. The guy from next door was shouting\, the landlady was screaming….    \n  \nThen\, the next thing was: I was being carried in a closed coffin. I could feel the coffin swaying\, and I was thinking about it\, and for the first time it occurred to me that  I was dead–dead as a doornail–and I knew it. There couldn’t be any doubt about it. I couldn’t see or move\, but I could think and feel. This didn’t bother me. I just accepted it.  \n  \nThen they buried me. And they went away. And I was alone. It was cold and damp\, just like you’d expect. I felt very cold\, especially in the tips of my toes\, but I didn’t feel anything else.  \n  \nI laid in my grave. I didn’t expect anything. I just accepted that a dead man has nothing to look forward to. But it was damp. Some time passed. I don’t know how long. A drop of water that had seeped through the lid of the coffin fell on my left eyelid. A minute later… another drop. A minute later…another drop. One drop every minute. It was infuriating! And when I got angry I felt a sharp stab of pain in my chest. “That’s my wound\,” I thought. “That’s where I shot myself. There’s a bullet in there.” And every minute another drop of water fell on my eyelid. It was driving me crazy. And I cried out—not with my voice\, but with my whole being:  \n  \n“Whoever you are that’s doing this to me\, if anything more rational exists than what is happening to me now\, I would like to experience it. But if you are punishing me for committing suicide with life-after-death\, no torture that you inflict on me can ever equal the contempt that I will go on feeling for you forever and ever!”  \n  \nI made this appeal and waited. It was silent for almost a minute. Then a drop fell on my closed eyelid. But I knew that everything was going to change immediately. And it did.  \n  \nI don’t know how my coffin was dug up and opened\, but I was grabbed by a dark unknown being. And the next thing was: we were flying through space. I could see again\, but it was pitch-black. It was the blackest black night. We were flying through space at a terrific speed. We had left the earth far behind us. I didn’t question the being who was carrying me. I was too proud. I just waited. I wasn’t afraid\, which surprised me. I have no idea how long we were flying. Suddenly I saw a little star in the darkness.  \n  \n“Is that Sirius?” I just blurted it out. And then I got mad at myself\, because I wasn’t going to ask any questions.  \n  \nThe being who was carrying me said: “No. That’s the same star you saw between the clouds when you were coming home.”  \n  \nI didn’t like this being one bit. I had expected complete non-existence—that’s why I shot myself. And now here I was in the hands of this being—not a human being\, but a being nevertheless. It existed. “So there is life beyond the grave\,” I thought\, in that kind of off-hand way you do sometimes in dreams. Deep down\, though\, nothing had really changed for me. I thought to myself: “If I must be again\, I won’t be defeated and humiliated!”  \n  \nI said to my companion\, “You know I’m afraid of you and that’s why you despise me.” That’s just like me — to say something completely humiliating right after I told myself I wasn’t going to be humiliated.  \n  \nHe didn’t answer\, but somehow I sensed that our journey had a mysterious purpose. I was really frightened now. We had long passed the constellations that were familiar to me. And then I saw our sun and was flooded with a strong feeling of nostalgia. It couldn’t be our sun—we were millions of light years away from it—but somehow I knew with every fiber of my being that it was an exact twin copy of our sun. I had a warm feeling of coming home. And for the first time since I had been in the grave I felt a stirring in my heart.  \n  \n“But if this is exactly like our sun\, then where is the earth?”  \n  \nMy companion pointed to the little star I had seen twinkling in the darkness with an emerald light. We were heading straight for it.  \n  \nI felt an uncontrollable\, deep and sad love for the earth I’d left behind.  \n  \nThe face of the little girl I had treated so badly flashed through my mind. I started crying like a baby.  \n  \nWe were rapidly approaching the planet. It was growing before my eyes. I could distinguish the ocean\, the outlines of Europe. A great jealousy blazed up in my heart.  \n  \n“How is such repetition possible? And why? I can only love the earth I’ve left behind\, stained with my blood. I know I’m an ungrateful bastard for shooting myself through the heart. But that doesn’t mean I stopped loving the earth. I never\, never stopped loving it. I loved it more than ever on the night I ended my life.”  \n  \nSomehow…I don’t remember how…I was already standing on this other earth. My companion was gone. It was a bright\, sunny day. It was beautiful. It was like Paradise.  \n  \nThere was a radiant feeling in the air. Bright flowers were everywhere. The sky was filled with birds. And they weren’t afraid of me. They landed on my shoulders and hands and sang to me. And I saw and came to know the people of this blessed earth. They surrounded me and touched me and kissed me all over. They were beautiful! I’d never seen people so beautiful. The first moment I looked at their faces I understood everything! It was an earth unstained by the Fall\, inhabited by people who hadn’t sinned\, who didn’t know the meaning of sin. They lived in the same kind of Paradise that our first parents lived in. Except that all the earth was everywhere the same Paradise. It had no boundary.  \n  \nWell\, so\, I mean…all right\, so it was just a dream. But the love of those innocent and beautiful people has stayed with me. I can still feel their love flowing out to me from over there. I have seen them. I have known them and they showed me something. I loved them\, and I suffered for them afterwards. I knew from the beginning that there were many things about them I would never understand. I was kind of surprised that they knew nothing about our science\, for instance. But I soon realized that their knowledge was derived from different emotions than we are accustomed to. And their aspirations were different\, too. They desired nothing. They were at peace with themselves. They didn’t strive to gain knowledge about life in the way we do because their lives were full. I couldn’t understand their way of being in the world. They looked at their trees with an intense love and talked to them as if the trees were beings like themselves. They really talked with them. And the trees understood them! I’m sure of it. They knew the language of the trees. They looked on all nature like that. The animals lived peaceably with them and didn’t attack them or run from them\, but loved them. They weren’t concerned with whether I understood them or not; they loved me regardless.  \n  \nThey were playful and high-spirited like children. They made love and begot children\, but I never saw in them those outbursts of cruel sensuality which are the source of almost every sin. There were no quarrels or jealousy among them—they didn’t even know what those words meant. Their children were the children of them all\, for they were all one family. They rarely got sick\, though of course they died; but their old people died peacefully\, as though falling asleep. I saw smiles on those occasions\, never grief or tears. I saw love that seemed to reach the point of rapture. They had no specific places for worship\, but wherever they went they were in a kind of uninterrupted communion with the whole universe.  \n  \nI told them that I had a presentiment of all this years ago. That I felt a nostalgic yearning\, that became at times an unendurable sorrow. I told them that often on our earth I couldn’t look at the setting sun without tears…that there was a sharp pang of anguish in my love for people: why couldn’t I love them without hating them?  \n  \nThey listened to me\, but I  could tell they didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. They didn’t  understand me\, but they loved me. They loved me. And when in their loving presence my heart became as innocent and as truthful as theirs I didn’t mind that I couldn’t understand them either.  \n  \nI’ve tried to talk to people about this. They just laugh at me. How could all this have been crammed into one dream? I must have just awakened with a certain sensation and then invented most of the details after I woke up. And when I admit that they’re probably right\, they think it’s the funniest thing in the world. Sure\, when I woke up what remained was mostly a powerful sensation. But nonetheless\, the real shapes and forms of my dream\, those I actually saw while dreaming\, were so harmonious and enchanting and beautiful that when I was awake and trying to describe them in words I just blundered along the best I could and had to make up some of the details. I needed to make some conscious account to myself of what I had just experienced\, even if in the process I couldn’t help distorting it. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t really happen. All that couldn’t possibly not have been. Because what happened afterwards was so awful\, so horribly true\, that it couldn’t have been a mere figment of my imagination. The fact is\, I corrupted them all!  \n  \nYeah. That’s how it ended. The dream encompassed thousands of years and left in me only a vague sensation of the whole. I only know that I was the cause of the Fall. Like a horrible virus\, I infected that happy earth that knew no sin or sorrow before me. They learned to lie and grew to appreciate the beauty of a lie. Maybe it all began innocently\, with a joke\, a flirtation\, a bit of sarcasm\, some small deceit–just a germ. But this germ made its way into their hearts and they liked it. Voluptuousness was soon born\, voluptuousness begot jealousy\, and jealousy…cruelty. I don’t know how it happened! I can’t remember. But soon\, very soon\, the first blood was shed. They were shocked and horrified. They began to separate and avoid one another. They formed alliances\, but the alliances were against each other. The idea of honor was born. They began killing the animals for food\, or just for sport—and the animals ran away from them into the forests. People began to crave separation. They asserted their “personality.” And they came to distinguish between “yours” and “mine.” Especially “mine.” They began talking in different languages. They knew sorrow\, and they loved it. They thirsted for suffering. And they said that truth could only be attained through suffering. It was then that science appeared among them. When they became vicious they began to talk of brotherhood and humanity. When they became criminals they invented justice. They drew up codes of law and instituted public executions.  \n  \nThey only vaguely remembered what they had lost\, and they wouldn’t believe that they were ever happy and innocent. They even laughed at the idea of their former happiness and called it a dream. And yet they longed to be happy and innocent again. Like children\, they surrendered to the desire of their hearts\, glorified this desire\, built temples\, and offered up prayers to their own idea\, their own desire. But if someone had showed them the way back to their state of happy innocence they would have refused to go. They said to me:  \n  \n“What if we are dishonest\, cruel and unjust? That’s the way things are. That’s how they’ve always been. Maybe with the help of science and reason we can make some small improvements. Knowledge is higher than feeling.”  \n  \nThat’s what they said. Something like that.  \n  \nSaints came among them. With tears in their eyes they told the people of their pride\, of their loss of proportion and harmony. They were ignored\, or laughed at\, or stoned to death. Men arose who began to wonder how they all could be united again in mutual understanding\, so that everybody would still love himself or herself best of all\, but nobody would interfere with anybody else. Whole wars were fought over this idea.  \n  \nEveryone believed that each of these orgies of reciprocal mass-destruction would be the last. That science\, and the instinct of self-preservation would ultimately force humanity to unite in a harmonious and intelligent society. Therefore\, to speed up this inevitable progress\, the “very wise and righteous” did their best to exterminate as quickly as possible those who failed to understand this noble idea.  \n  \nThey glorified suffering as the most profound experience. I felt so sad for them. I think I loved them more than before—when there was no suffering in their faces\, when they were innocent and so beautiful! I loved the earth they had poisoned even more than when it was a paradise\, because sorrow had made its appearance. I’ve always been in love with suffering. But only for myself! Only for myself. To see them suffer just made me utterly miserable. I hated myself for what I had done. I told them that I was responsible for all the corruption\, contamination and lies. I asked them to crucify me. I even showed them how to make the cross. I couldn’t kill myself because I didn’t have the courage\, but I wanted them to martyr me. I yearned for my blood to be shed to the last drop in torment and suffering. They just laughed at me. They didn’t believe me when I said I was the cause of their suffering. And even those who gave me the benefit of the doubt—maybe they were just humoring me—said that what I did was perfectly justifiedt that they didn’t want a life without suffering\, and that what happened was inevitable. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. They said I was becoming dangerous and they would lock me up in an insane asylum if I didn’t shut up. Then a sadness entered my heart with such force that I felt like I was dying. And then I woke up.  \n  \nIt was morning. My candle had burned out. Everyone was asleep next door and it was completely quiet. I was in a very strange state of mind. I had never fallen asleep in my armchair before. And as I was trying to adjust to being awake—because a really strong sensation from the dream still lingered—I saw my gun lying there loaded and ready. I pushed it away! I wanted to live! I wept. I felt this amazing joy—infinite\, boundless joy. I was intoxicated just at being alive. And I immediately felt this strong desire to talk to someone\, to anyone. To everyone. I decided: “I’m going to tell them.” What? The Truth. I have seen the Truth. I have seen it with my own eyes and it’s beautiful!  \n  \nAnd ever since then I’ve been trying to tell people about it. They laugh at me. People say I get the story all mixed up\, and if I’m already doing that\, then what will it be like later on? They’re right. I get confused and I’ll probably just get worse as time goes on. I mean\, it’s confusing because it’s very hard to put it into words. I don’t know…I think everyone is confused. Because…well\, everyone wants to be happy\, right? And look how unhappy everyone is!  \n  \nBut I have seen the Truth. And I know that people can be happy and beautiful. I just can’t believe that evil is our normal condition\, that we are evil by nature. People laugh at this faith of mine. But how can I help believing it? I’ve seen the Truth. It’s not like I invented it with my mind. I really saw it. I experienced it. And the living image of it will be with me always. I’ve seen it and I know we can realize it\, and that it will transform us. I’m not confused about that. Of course I’ll make mistakes and say the wrong thing\, but the living image of what I’ve seen will correct me and put me back on the right path. I’m feeling pretty good right now. And I feel like I have a kind of mission and I will have it as long as I live. But I don’t know exactly what it is. At first I wasn’t going to tell you that I corrupted them. That was a mistake. But the Truth whispered to me\, “You’re lying\,” and put me back on the path. I don’t know how to establish a heaven on earth. I don’t know how to put it into words. At least the most important things I need to say—I don’t know how to say them. But that’s okay. I’ll just keep trying.  \n  \nIt’s all really very simple:  \n  \nIn one day\, in one hour\, everything could change! The main thing is: we have to love each other\, and love this earth. That sounds too simple\, doesn’t it? But it’s true. That’s the main thing. That’s everything. Nothing else matters. It’s not particularly original. It’s been said a million times and it hasn’t done any good. I mean\, look at the world! It’s a mess. I don’t know…if only we all wanted it\, everything would change in the blink of an eye. \n  \n  \n–Fyodor Dostoevsky
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-12-23-21/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/0-2.jpeg
END:VEVENT
END:VCALENDAR