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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20211215
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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)
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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/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220106
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220120
DTSTAMP:20260427T063630
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LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T130239Z
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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  1/6/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nJanuary 6\, 2022 \n  \nDr. Cornel West gave the Collins Distinguished Speaker Lecture at the University of Oregon\, on April 26\, 2019. His lecture was titled “Race Matters…A Timely Discussion on the Fabric of America.” On YouTube\, the talk is titled “What It Means to Be Human.” This is a transcription of the first part of the talk: \n  \n  \nWhat It Means to Be Human \n  \nFour hundred years of being hated—individually\, systemically\, chronically\, institutionally\, and yet the best of the Black tradition is what? Teaching the world so much about love. I could just turn on John Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme” right now\, and sit down. Just let you take it in. Or I could read passages from Toni Morrison’s Beloved. A love so thick that it takes the form of the killing of your precious baby\, because you don’t want your baby dirtied and thingified by white supremacist persons\, practices\, institutions\, structures. I could read the love-soaked essays of James Baldwin\, the son of Harlem. Never went to college\, but at least two colleges went through him. He would say over and over again: “Love forces us to take off the mask we know we cannot live within\, but fear we cannot live without.” Courage. Interrogation. There’s never been a figure on the American stage—given all of the genius and talent\, of Eugene O’Neill and probably the greatest indictment ever written of the American Empire in The Iceman Cometh\, or Tennessee Williams\, or Arthur Miller\, or August Wilson\, or Adrienne Kennedy—but I’m talkin’ about Loraine Hansbury’s A Raisin in the Sun. Has there ever been a figure with more love than Mama on the American stage? Five generations enacted\, and her attempt to bequeath and to transmit what the Isley Brothers would call “a caravan of love” to that younger generation. Walter keeps Travis\, in light of Old Man Walter—you oughta know the play—who dies\, who bequeaths ten thousand dollars\, to see whether they’ll get to that vanilla suburb or not. But that’s not the end and aim of it. The aim is: measuring people based on their courageous attempt to cultivate the capacity to think for themselves. To learn how to love. And to laugh. And to hope. I could turn on Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Goin’ On?” Every note and the silence between the notes. “Save the babies.” “Who really cares?” Or Stevie Wonder’s “Love’s in Need of Love.” But this love that we’re talking about again—this is not abstract. It is concrete\, and it is as real as a heart attack. And it has something to do with the Socratic legacy of Athens. It has something to do with line 38A of Plato’s Apology: “The unexamined life is not worth living.” And we know the Greek actually said: “The unexamined life is not the life of a human.” And we know our English word “human” comes from the Latin humando\, which means what? Burial and burying. We’re beings on the way to death. And you can’t talk about race matters\, you can’t talk about what it means to be human\, without talking about wrestling with forms of death and what it means to be on intimate relations with forms of death. Early physical deaths\, indeed\, but also social death. That 244 years of  white supremacist slavery attempt to make them socially dead\, in the language of the great Orlando Patterson\, in his 1982 classic\, Slavery and Social Death. Unsuccessful. Resistance\, resilience still kicks in\, but the attempt to impose a social death. And then a psychic death. And what is psychic death? Well\, for black people in the modern world it has to do with trying to wrestle against the forces of niggerization. Because to niggerize a people is to try to convince them they’re less beautiful\, they’re less intelligent\, they’re less moral—to instill in them unbelievable fear\, to instill in them this sense  that they oughta be scared all the time\, and intimidated all the time. Laughin’ when it ain’t funny. Scratchin’ when it don’t itch. Wearing the mask\, as Paul Lawrence Dunbar said it in his great poem. That’s why one of the most powerful sentences in James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time\, is that line in the letter to the nephew: “Don’t\, comma\, be afraid.” That’s why Marcus Garvey would always have a black person in front of every major demonstration with a big sign: “The negro is not afraid.” Even if they’re shaking\, carrying the sign. That’s why the great Mary Ellen Pleasant\, who was the first black woman millionaire in America\, known as “the Mother of Human Rights in California.” She happened to be a black domestic maid who married a white Robber Baron\, and he dropped dead. She got all his money. And she didn’t kill him. It was a natural thing. But never forget Mary Ellen Pleasant. She gave eight hundred thousand dollars to a white brother named John Brown. That’s how he survived financially on his way to Harper’s Ferry. She would start every lecture\, all over California\, with the line: “I’d rather be a corpse than a coward.” Just like Martin Luther King\, Jr. would always say to his staff: “I’d rather be dead than afraid.” Wrestling with what it means to be human. Being on intimate terms with death. And the echoes\, going back to Plato\, when he says: “Philosophy itself is a meditation on and preparation for death.” Philo sophia\, “love of wisdom.” Meditation on\, preparation for: death. And even Seneca—and we don’t expect too much profundity from the Romans\, they’re so busy running an empire\, very much like we Americans—he used to say: “He or she who learns how to die\, unlearns slavery.” I’ve told my students for 41 years of my very blessed life of teaching: “When you come in my classroom\, you’re here to learn how to die.” “Oh Brother West\, I thought I was just taking a Philosophy class\, to read some texts\, and get a grade.” “No\, no! This is paideia. This is p-a-i-d-e-i-a. This is deep education. This is not cheap schooling.” When you’re talking about race matters you’re not just talking about skill acquisition and information. You’re talking about self-interrogation and social transformation. And the best of the University of Oregon\, with all of the challenges that go along with any institution of higher learning in our late Capitalist civilization that’s undergoing commodification\, bureaucratization\, corporatization\, rationalization\, making it more and more difficult for any kind of paideia to take place. But the students come in so pre-professional. Can’t wait to make their move into the professions. “No\, you gotta learn how to think first. No\, you gotta learn how to laugh first. You gotta learn how to play first. You gotta wrestle with what it means to be human.” “I’ll get to that later on\, I just need my skills.” Oh\, what makes you think any democracy can survive\, based on dominant forces of corporatization\, commodification\, bureaucratization and rationalization\, in the Weberian sense? You’re gonna end up\, as Du Bois said so powerfully in The Souls of Black Folk: “Caught in the dusty desert of smartness and dollars.” And in many ways that’s where we are. I don’t know about the University of Oregon\, but back at Harvard oftentimes the highest thing a student can say about themselves is they’re the smartest in the room. And I tell ‘em: “Let the phones be smart\, and you be wise.” The fantasizing of smartness\, tied to richness—how spiritually empty! How morally vacuous! And\, most importantly\, reinforcing the worst protocols of professional culture\, which are conformity\, complacency\, and when it’s time to actually act\, cowardliness. Because the careerism and the opportunism are so overwhelming . Thank God for Socrates. Thank God for all of those who are willing to\, first\, begin with themselves. Self-examination. Self-interrogation. And when you give up an assumption or presupposition\, when you give up a dogma or a doctrine—that’s a form of death. And there is no education without that kind of death. There’s no maturation without that kind of death. That’s what learning how to die is all about. One of the greatest eulogies ever written—one sentence—by a sister named Dorothy Day\, one of the great prophetic figures of the Twentieth Century. She’s my fellow Catholic sister. When Martin Luther King\, Jr.\, was murdered\, April 4th\, 1968\, in her historic newspaper The Catholic Worker she said: “Martin Luther King\, Jr. learned how to die daily.” To continually grow\, continually mature\, and it’s endless\, it is perennial\, and you always end up in a moment of inadequacy—almost an echo of our great lapsed Protestant artistic genius\, Samuel Beckett\, when he said: “Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” “Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” That’s the best that we can do. But you’re continually in process\, calling yourself into question\, interrogating whatever assumptions you are falling back on. That’s Socratic energy at its highest level. To come to terms with race matters is to begin with self always already tied to society\, always already tied to forms of death\, forms of dogma\, and forms of domination. To be human is to wrestle with those inescapable and unavoidable realities\, to drop any linguistically conscious primate\, like ourselves\, in time and space\, means you’re gonna have to wrestle with forms of death—first\, bodily extinction\, the psychic and spiritual death\, possibly civic death\, forms of patriarchy\, class-based\, could be empire\, colonized people. But then: dogma—ideological dogma\, religious dogma\, political dogma\, scientific dogma. You say: “Brother West\, how could there be scientific dogma? To be scientific is to be always concerned about questioning.” “Read the history of science.” Just read it closely. The great John Dewey always made a distinction between scientific method and scientific temper. The method itself can become a dogma. Just like skepticism. If you’re not skeptical about skepticism you get locked into a certain kind of skepticism. And in the end it becomes a matter of adolescent activity\, because skepticism usually presupposes the vantage point of a spectator. Whereas\, criticism is one of a participant. So\, you can play all kinds of games as a spectator\, but when you are involved\, when it comes to your house\, and your loved ones\, all of a sudden things shift. And that’s one of the great stories of white supremacy in the United States. So often people can be in a state of denial. Look at the U.S. Constitution: any reference to the institution of white supremacist slavery? No! Twenty-two percent of the inhabitants of the thirteen colonies are enslaved. No reference to the institution in your constitution. You’re gonna end up havin’ a Civil War of 750\,000 precious people killed over an institution not invoked in your constitution. “Well\, Professor West\, that’s just a fascinating tension between principal and practice.” “Get off the crack pipe!” That’s called denial. That’s called avoidance. That’s called thinking in fact that you can somehow\, through willful ignorance\, treat people\, conceive of yourself\, in ways that those effects and consequences won’t come back to haunt you. What did Malcolm X call it? “Chickens comin’ home to roost.” Sooner or later\, you’re gonna reap what you sow. Sooner or later\, what you think you’ve been able to escape from is gonna hunt you down. We’re seeing that right now in imperial America. We end up killing almost a million Muslims and can’t say a mumblin’ word in our public discourse. Invasions of Iraq\, Afghanistan\, Pakistan. And then you get the counter-terrorists and we wonder why they’re upset. Now\, terrorism\, for me\, needs to be called into question across the board. Taking the life of innocent human beings\, for any reason\, is a crime against humanity. But no serious concern about how many Iraqis died. Same is true with our drones. Innocent folk in Yemen and Somalia and Pakistan\, Libya\, Afghanistan can die. Kill one American—Brother Barack did what? Had a press conference that same day. Gave economic compensation for the family that same day. And yet already denied that they killed any innocent people\, as a whole. Quit lyin’! Quit lyin’! Keep track of human beings! Those babies in Yemen and Somalia\, those babies in Pakistan—they have exactly the same status and significance as black babies in South Central Los Angeles\, as brown babies in East Los Angeles\, as white babies in Newtown Connecticut\, as yellow babies in San Francisco. And we like to talk about it in the abstract\, but when it comes time to being actually tested in our actions\, we’re livin’ in denial. We might as well be in Disneyworld on Main Street. And what’s fascinating about Disneyworld—so stereotypically and quintessentially American? There’s a lot of fun there. But there’s no life. And there’s no life because there’s no death. If somebody’s about to die in Disneyworld\, you just take ‘em and push ‘em across the line. “You’re gonna besmirch our image. Nobody’s supposed to die in Disneyworld\, now.” Ah! I’m bein’ facetious. Y’all get the point\, though. Escapist! Escapist! Escapist! Given all of the overwhelming sense of possibility\, and supposedly prosperity\, and yet\, one out of two of our children\, black and brown\, under six years old\, live in poverty in the richest nation in the history of the world. That’s a moral disgrace! Where’s the discourse about it? Martin Luther King\, Jr. turns over in his grave. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel turns over in his grave. Are we gonna actually keep track of the underside? Are we gonna be Socratic enough that we can keep track of the Conrad-like heart of darkness shot through all of the life of liberty that we talk about in the United States? Or\, sooner or later\, you’re gonna reap what you sow. Absolutely. And of course\, usually the people who raise this issue end up being misunderstood\, misconstrued\, marginalized\, incarcerated\, or shot down like a dog. The truth is too much! It’s too overwhelming! Rather close one’s eyes. And yet\, when the crisis comes\, ooh\, lo and behold! That’s why race matters in regard to indigenous peoples\, in regard to our precious brown brothers and sisters. Moving borders. I grew up in California. Used to be Mexico. Read what Ulysses S. Grant says about the Mexican War. Just massive gentrification\, a power grab\, and a land grab\, across the board. Immigration discourse. Well\, they comin’ home. They comin’ home. That used to be theirs. Viciously\, immorally taken. Or Asian brothers and sisters. The very year in which we had the Statue of Liberty—“Give me your poor”—there’s the Chinese Exclusion Act. So much for our universality. And of course you all here in Oregon\, you know about the Black Exclusion Acts of 1844. Is that right? You know about those? [Someone in the audience says: “No\, we don’t.”] Well\, they need to know. I’m gonna put up a picture. Serious exclusion acts. Black folk can’t step foot in Oregon. “But we’re anti-slavery.” “Yes\, but you’re anti-black people\, at the same time.” That is highly possible. We human beings\, we’re so creative when it comes to mistreatin’ each other. Be against slavery\, but don’t want black folks too close. Can’t stand the institution\, but oh\, when those live human beings and bodies get close\, we’re overwhelmed. That’s part of the challenge\, too. That’s why any discussion about race is never simply a discussion about policy\, structural institutions—as crucial as structural institutions are. But it’s also about the ways in which subjectivities are constructed\, the ways in which individuals are created. And then\, the choices that people make\, not just as persons\, but in collectivities\, in groups\, in communities. And that’s one of the reasons why the best of the University of Oregon or any other institution of higher learning has to put such a stress on that Socratic legacy of Athens\, that paideia. And that line 24A of Plato’s Apology\, when Socrates says: “Parrhesia is the cause of my unpopularity.” What is parrhesia—p-a-r-r-h-e-s-i-a? Frank speech. Fearless speech. Plain speech. Unintimidated speech. Education at its highest level is about fusing the formation of our wise attention with the cultivation of our critical thinking\, that’s linked to the maturation of compassionate and courageous people. Now\, we raised the question: “Is courage a dominant virtue in our universities?” Hell\, no! No\, it’s not at all. It’s about smartness. It’s about status. And\, too often\, arrogance and condescension. Courage is tied to fortitude. Fortitude is tied to a certain humility. Socrates!: “I know that I know more than others precisely because I know that I know nothing. And they think they know something they do not know.” Intellectual humility. Personal humility. But it’s tied also to a tenacity. “I’m going to raise whatever is inside of me to think for myself\,” as Kant put it in What is Enlightenment?  of 1784. The release from self-incurred tutelage. The release from self-imposed immaturity. Dare to think for yourself! That’s what it is to find a voice of my own black tradition. So when Monk tells Coltrane\, “You been imitatin’ Johnny Hodges of the Duke Ellington Band too much\, John. It’s time for you to find your voice. What does Trane sound like?” And I don’t know how many of you all had a chance to see “Amazing Grace.” Has that hit Eugene yet? Aretha\, twenty-nine years old\, walks into James Cleveland’s church and raises her voice. And who’s on the front row? Not just her father\, Reverend C. L. Franklin\, one of the finest of all preachers enacting such a grand oratorical art\, but Clara Ward—echoes of Marion Williams—those Aretha imitated\, until she found her voice. I don’t know if many of you all got a chance to see “Homecoming” yet\, about Beyonce. Oh\, we got some Queen Bee beehives up in here? Oh\, sooki sooki\, now. Yeah. So what does she do when she enters predominantly white space? She brings her whole crew with her\, doesn’t she? She brings her whole culture with her—two hundred musicians linked to historically black college performances. And the performances are not mere entertainment. Each one of them are lifting their voices\, just like Duke Ellington’s orchestra. Just like James Brown’s band. Just like the musicians in Sly Stone’s group. Each one finding their voice. And they bounce off against each other. Ralph Ellison called it “antagonistic cooperation.” ‘Cause it’s not competition in the market-driven sense: “I’m so good\, and you’re sounding so bad.” No. Grow up. We’re in this together. And\, most importantly\, kenosis. And this is what oftentimes is missing in any serious talk about race matters\, especially in the academy\, but even outside. And what is kenosis—k-e-n-o-s-i-s? Kenosis is self-emptying\, self-donating\, self-giving. It’s like the end of a James Brown concert\, when he comes out and says\, “I’m an extension of you. You’re an extension of me. I’ve just given you three-and-a-half hours of all that I am. Did anybody come here to hear a song we did not play?” “You didn’t play ‘Soul Power\,’ James.” He says\, “Hit it\, Bootsie!” Because you come to serve. You’re not a spectacle. I go to some of these concerts with these young brothers and sisters\, highly talented\, and all that spectacle hits. I went to one of Usher’s concerts. That negro was flippin’ over like he was in a circus. I said: “ Pick up the microphone and sing a song\, negro! I didn’t come here for all this mess!” Spectacle! That’s late Capitalist culture. Image! Spectacle! Superficiality! Titillation! Stimulation! All Aretha Franklin needs is a microphone. She sits down—is that right\, my sister?—she sits down at that piano and what does she do? Within three minutes she has touched you in parts of your soul you forgot about. Because she has mastered her craft and her technique in such a way\, but she’s there to give\, she’s there to enable\, she’s there to empower. She wants people to leave feeling as if they could take on death and its forms\, domination and its forms\, dogma and its forms\, and be ready to die with dignity\, physically\, and then hope your afterlife will be at work in the lives of those who come after. Oh\, what a great conception of what it is to be human! Black folk have no monopoly on this. This is a human thing\, across the board…. \n  \n  \nSorry to stop here. This is about halfway through his talk. It takes quite a while to transcribe it from the video\, I’m a day late in getting out this issue\, and this is about our normal length. Those of you with access to the Internet are encouraged to watch the whole lecture on YouTube (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aekb3ppKm5w&t=1813s). (JS) \n  \n  \nDr. West has taught at Yale\, Princeton and Harvard. He currently teaches at Union Theological Seminary in New York. 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-1-6-22/
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LAST-MODIFIED:20220108T213443Z
UID:2537-1641740400-1641747600@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  1/9/22
DESCRIPTION:Woman Reading at a Desk (c. 1910) by Thomas P. Anshutz \n  \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! This week\, Sunday\, January 9th\, at 3 pm (PST)\, our theme is “Read Any Good Books Lately?” Or a long time ago? Here’s the link for the Zoom gathering: \n  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \n  \n  \nI hope to see you there! \n  \npeace\, love & happiness \n  \nJohnny \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-1-9-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220115
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220215
DTSTAMP:20260427T063630
CREATED:20220115T173921Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220115T184819Z
UID:2543-1642204800-1644883199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  1/15/22
DESCRIPTION:Hotei \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \n  January 15\, 2022 \n  \nLive light\, travel light\, spread the light\, be the light. \n—tag on Yogi Tea bag \n  \nEvery thing that lives is Holy. \n—William Blake \n  \nEach thought\, each action in the sunlight of awareness becomes sacred. In this light\, no boundary exists between the sacred and the profane. \n—Thich Nhat Hanh\, from Your True Home\, #269 \n  \nKen Margolis sent this poem by our friend Dennis Wiancko: \n  \n      Our Mother’s Prayer \n  \nOur Mother\, Whose name is Earth\, \nHallowed be Your ground \nAnd Your skies \nAnd Your rolling seas \n  \nYour gardens thrive; Your spirit alive \nThrough woodlands\, streams\, \nMountains and plains \nEverywhere \n  \nGrant us this day our needs for tomorrow \nAnd refresh us with Your living waters \n  \nForgive us our mistreatment \nAs we would forgive those who cause you harm \n  \nLift us from negligence\, and deliver us from greed\, \nFor Yours is the home\, and the beauty\, \nAnd the life that sustains us\, \nAnd we would love\, respect\, and care for You \nNow and ever\, ever forward. \n  \n—R. Dennis Wiancko 2016 \n* \n  \nKim sent a poem and some thoughts from the Dalai Lama.  \n  \n      Etiquette of Thought \n  \nWhen first you wake\, you may wonder \nwithout knowing. Dream work still rules. \nThen\, the coffee\, you begin to know \nwithout saying. The mind has a mind \nof its own. When others wake\, you may \nsay without asking\, caught in your own \nlittle world. But with luck\, a little grace\, \nyou may then ask and listen\, and by this \nblessing\, work your way back to wonder. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n  \nHere is what a friend told me she learned from the Dalai Lama when he visited her nonprofit in India: \n  \nKindness brings joyfulness \nservice to others brings joyfulness \nwe are made for goodness \nthe gift of suffering makes us appreciate joy  \njoy is our work of giving joy to others \nhappiness is a result of kindness  \nwell being is a skill  \nwhile you are alive your life should be meaningful  \n  \n—Dalai Lama \n* \n  \n[There is a] marvelous story in the world of Zen Buddhism where the man is standing on the hill in the distance and a group of people come along and see him standing there and begin to wonder why he’s standing there. So they have quite a full discussion of the possibilities of what caused him to be standing there. When they finally  reach him\, they say we’ve been having this discussion about why you’re standing here. Which one of us is right? He says\, I have no reason. I’m just standing here. \n  \n—John Cage\, from Musicage: Cage Muses on Words Art Music\, p. 129 \n* \n  \nJason Beito shared this from his friend Steve Decker\, who recently released to Portland. Steve is a student of Siddha Yoga. \n  \nTo celebrate gratitude is to express gratitude. \n  \nThe origin of the word “sacrifice” is: “to make sacred.” \n  \n“Love is\, first and foremost\, sacrifice. More than passion\, romantic declarations\, or outer expressions of loyalty and faith. Where there is true love\, there is a willingness to give one’s essence in its service—whether as a mother who sacrifices for her children\, a leader for his country\, a seeker to his spiritual practices\, or an artist to his art.”—Siddha Yoga \n  \n“A man who enjoys what is given by the gods \nwithout offering something in return\, \nhe is a thief and lives in vain.”—the Vedas \n  \nLet’s make our lives Sacred. \n  \nThanks for what you give to me \nand to so many others. \n  \n—Jason Beito \n* \nFor me\, the beginning of each day is an important time. I like to find my way to what I call “The Golden World.” When I feel that I am “in” the Golden World\, everything is beautiful\, perfect\, miraculous. I silently say “thank you.” Thought and language fall away. Without a care in the world\, I feel slightly elated. I have no problems. No ambitions. No fears. No boundary. There is no distinction between “me” and “the world.” This nameless feeling is quite lovely. It’s Paradise.  \n  \nAs the day goes on\, and I get busy with various activities\, I like to take good care of my feelings of peace and love and happiness. I want to see everyone I meet\, including my plant and animal friends\, as the beautiful luminous beings we are. \n  \nI got a new book by Thich Nhat Hanh yesterday: Zen and the Art of Saving the Planet. It’s edited from his talks and writings by Sister True Dedication. I like this poem. It reminds me of a poem by Walt Whitman: \n  \nI have been looking for you\, my child\, \nSince the time when rivers and mountains still lay in obscurity. \nI was looking for you when you were still in a deep sleep\, \nAlthough the conch had many times \nEchoed in the ten directions. \nFrom our ancient mountain I looked at distant lands \nAnd recognized your steps on so many different paths. \nWhere are you going? \n  \nIn former lifetimes you have often taken my hand \nAnd we have enjoyed walking together. \nWe have sat for long hours at the foot of old pine trees. \nWe have stood side by side in silence \nListening to the sound of the wind softly calling us \nAnd looking up at the white clouds floating by. \nYou have picked up and given to me the first red autumn leaf \nAnd I have taken you through forests deep in snow. \nBut wherever we go\, we always return to our \nAncient mountain to be near to the moon and stars\, \nTo invite the great bell every morning to sound\, \nAnd help all beings to wake up. \n  \n—from “At the Edge of the Forest\,” by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \n  \n      We Two\, How Long We Were Fool’d \n  \nWe two\, how long we were fool’d\, \nNow transmuted\, we swiftly escape as Nature escapes\, \nWe are Nature\, long have we been absent\, but now we return\, \nWe become plants\, trunks\, foliage\, roots\, bark\, \nWe are bedded in the ground\, we are rocks\, \nWe are oaks\, we grow in the openings side by side\, \nWe browse\, we are two among the wild herds spontaneous as any\, \nWe are two fishes swimming in the sea together\, \nWe are what locust blossoms are\, we drop scent around lanes mornings and evenings\, \nWe are also the coarse smut of beasts\, vegetables\, minerals\, \nWe are two predatory hawks\, we soar above and look down\, \nWe are two resplendent suns\, we it is who balance ourselves orbic and stellar\, we are as two comets\, \nWe prowl fang’d and four-footed in the woods\, we spring on prey\, \nWe are two clouds forenoons and afternoons driving overhead\, \nWe are seas mingling\, we are two of those cheerful waves rolling over each other and interwetting each other\, \nWe are what the atmosphere is\, transparent\, receptive\, pervious\, impervious\, \nWe are snow\, rain\, cold\, darkness\, we are each product and influence of the globe\, \nWe have circled and circled till we have arrived home again\, we two\, \nWe have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy. \n  \n—Walt Whitman \n  \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nFirst\, a disclaimer: These monthly musings of mine from Your True Home are appearing to me to be less worldly and philosophical and more self-absorbed than others’ entries. Maybe it’s okay; these ‘everyday wisdoms’ of Thich Nhat Hanh force me to be self-reflective\, and I guess its about time—-just a couple weeks away from turning 78\, I’m thinking maybe Socrates is right about the unexamined life. So. \n  \n#111-Taking Care of the Future \n“The future is being made out of the present\, so the best way to take care of the future is to take care of the present moment. This is logical and clear. Spending a lot of time speculating and worrying about the future is totally useless. We can only take care of our future by taking care of the present moment\, because the future is made out of only one substance: the present. Only if you are anchored in the present can you prepare well for the future.” \n  \nWhew\,  I’m in luck\, because I am not a planner\, not an organizer\, not a ‘projectionist.’  “Goals” is a foreign word to me. In my late 30s\, post divorce\, I took a business class for artists\, and the instructor asked us to write down our ‘short term goals\,’ and our ‘long term goals.’ Huh?!?!? What’s that? Okay- 1. to make enough money for my daughter and me\, and 2. to be rich and famous hahaha (groan\, yes\, I wrote that).  Next question: What is your business plan to accomplish these goals?  Umm\, well\, like in the card game of Hearts\, I’ll shoot the moon! Meaning\, I’ll just go all out\, risk everything\, and just do it!  Fortunately\, there was no grading in that class. \n  \nAnd my almost-80-year-old husband keeps asking almost-78-year-old me how long\, how many years\, I think we can stay in this house\, with its ever lengthening staircase\, menacing throw rugs nipping at our toes\, and acre of whining\, demanding property to care for. Well\, forever! Climbing those stairs twenty time a day keeps us strong; tripping on throw rugs is good practice for balance\, and…oh\, just look at this peony.  \n  \nI should be thinking of the future\, but I keep forgetting. If I try to think ahead I get sidetracked\, distracted by something that’s happening right then: OMG\, Lolo’s fur is sooo soft on my cheek. I’ve never had a dog whose fur smelled so sweet. And she’s an old dog. Don’t old dogs smell? Lolo\, you’re the sweetest.  \n  \nSame with anger\, resentment\, worry. I can be stewing away vigorously about something—that guy in front of me is flipping snow all over me from his snowshoes. I should tell him how to stop doing…OH! Look at this!! It’s snowing tiny flakes and they look like diamonds sparkling with the sun shining behind them. Or fireflies! Yeah\, fireflies\, blinking on and off… \n  \nBut back to Taking Care of the Future; I trust TNH\, but I don’t quite understand how being anchored in the present can prepare you well for the future. Doesn’t ‘anchored’ mean ‘stuck?’ Shouldn’t you replace ‘worrying’ with the more positive word\, ‘planning?’ How does noticing dog fur and snowflakes help me prepare for the future? I’m serious.  \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nHere is something I have been meditating on for some time now. \n       \nMercy and forgiveness. I used to think that these two kindnesses could only be truly given by those who you had wronged. But if we can’t forgive ourselves first\, the forgiveness given can not be truly accepted by us.  \n        \nThere recently came a time when I finally was able to forgive myself. I had hated the person I USED to be\, and for years kept doing this ritual of inner self abuse for the pain I had caused others.  \n         \nI had a good dose of my past life recently and I could not function in that way any longer. I no longer was that person. Confused\, I meditated.  \n  \nThis man that I am now would never do the things the old man would do. The very thought is unpalatable to me now in every way. A person that has gone through such a massive life reformation should be allotted a small dose of mercy\, a reprieve from sins of a damaged past life—a life that was poisoned from birth by people who were themselves abused. No one is to blame. No one. It is the world and if I have seen the change in myself others must see it too. I feel I have grown into a remorseful man\, guilty of what I did\, and extremely repentant. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \n(Rocky’s words remind me of King Lear’s: “None does offend. None\, I say. None.”) (JS) \n  \nBelow is a quote from Alan Lightman (who wrote Einstein’s Dreams) that I have saved to my computer. Every so often I open the file and am inspired again by his vast vision.  \n  \n“The individual atoms\, cycled through wind and water and soil\, cycled through generations and generations of living creatures and minds\, will repeat and connect and make a whole out of parts. Although impermanent\, they make a permanence. Although scattered they make a totality.”  \n  \nIt reminds me that we don’t have to create or forge connections–everything is already in that state of union. It is just necessary to see past fog and illusion to the very interknit whole that we all are. Here are two poems of mine that express the same idea in slightly different ways. \n  \n  \nDirt’s Revelation \n  \nUnearthed in Sussex\, the now un-favored\, \nalmost forgotten word\, smeuse\, \ndescribing holes small animals make\, \npassageways through hedges and forest\, \nfrom lawn to lawn\, a hidey-hole\, smeuse\, \nthe unknown word once familiar\, \nnow waiting to be noticed\, little path \nin the dark from your heart to mine\, \nboth of us looking askance\, \npretending not to see but knowing \nall along this hidden world is life saving\, \nessential\, our worlds interwoven \nand dependent on the other. \nSmeuse\, word and passage\, \nis only an excuse \nwhere we pretend to be alone \nneeding connection. \nOh\, lovely play acting\, our face-saving \nlittle charm where we live as separate— \nbut the tunneling smeuse \nbetrays us in the dirt\, excavating \nthe truth of our necessary complicity \nand consummation. \n  \n  \nTime’s Velocity \n  \nThe water like glass\, we look  \nand see ourselves transparent\,  \nthen rippled and below \nare rounded rocks\, small fish.  \nCold eddies form around our hands  \nas we reach in trying to touch  \nthe reflected clouds\, ourselves\, a shadow. \nThe flow keeps moving farther and deeper  \nwhile the smell of water\, of time\, of glass  \nall mingle\, flaring our nostrils. \nWe wonder where have those hours gone\, \nnow years\, now memories we reach for\, \nso electric\, so evanescent. \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nHappy New Year. So glad to be here together. I’ve been thinking about New year’s resolutions.    \n  \nI’m living with a Young Thai woman in the household now. My son’s wife. In Thailand and other Buddhist cultures\, the New Year is highly celebrated with lights\, lanterns\, and joy. Of course it isn’t 30 degrees there and snowing.    \n  \nRather than resolutions about doing things\, they set intentions for how they want to be. Right intention is one of the paths on the eightfold path. Being in loving relationship with ourselves\, one another and with all beings on earth is what we are dedicated to on the Open Road. Here is something from the powerful bell hooks to give us a little boost for a new year:  \n   \nbell hooks died in December and her work is now celebrated in all sorts of arenas. She was an African American author\, teacher\, academic and social activist. In a career spanning four decades\, she has explored and written on a variety of themes including racism\, feminism\, culture and education. Her work has centered on identifying and challenging systems of oppression and discrimination which are based on race\, sex and class. In her last years she was most influenced by the teachings and life of Thich Nhat Hanh. Here is an excerpt from one of her talks where she speaks about her realization about the importance of Love as a practice for transformation.   \n  \nToward a Worldwide Culture of Love  \n  \nBY BELL HOOKS| JUNE 8\, 2021  \n  \n“Fundamentally\, the practice of love begins with acceptance—the recognition that wherever we are is the appropriate place to practice\, that the present moment is the appropriate time. But for so many of us our longing to love and be loved has always been about a time to come\, a space in the future when it will just happen\, when our hungry hearts will finally be fed\, when we will find love. . . ( She attended a conference that was more like a Love-In than an intellectual gathering about social justice and experienced a great shift). . .  Sacred presence was there\, a spirit of love and compassion like spring mist covered us\, and loving-kindness embraced me and my words. This is always the measure of mindful practice—whether we can create the conditions for love and peace in circumstances that are difficult\, whether we can stop resisting and surrender\, working with what we have\, where we are.”  \n  \nThe practice of love\, says bell hooks\, is the most powerful antidote to the politics of domination. She traces her thirty-year meditation on love\, power\, and Buddhism\, and concludes it is only love that transforms our personal relationships and heals the wounds of oppression.  \n  \nHer story makes me think about the shift that has taken place for all of us during performances in prison. When the production comes out of love and tolerance and caring during dialogue group then there is a magical transfer to creating a work of art that has meaning for us all.   \n  \nThis feeling seeps through our meditation and mindfulness conversation\, as we read together and reflect on our own practice\, alone but also together in a sangha that knows no walls. It is like our interbeing relationship with Thay as a writer and teacher; he is here because we are here\, responding with one another.  \n  \nin gratitude for your ongoing practice and presence everyone\,     \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-1-15-22/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220120
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220226
DTSTAMP:20260427T063630
CREATED:20200324T184257Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220120T223202Z
UID:617-1642636800-1645833599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:NURTURING CULTURE & COMMUNITY
DESCRIPTION:We need to nurture culture and community during this time when our options for getting together are limited. Here are a few suggestions\, for starters: \nEvery other Sunday at 3\, please join us for Bibliophiles Unanimous!: The Open Road Literary Salon. \nSubscribe to The Open Road’s peace\, love\, happiness & understanding journal. Use the Contact form on this website to let us know if you’d like to get it in your inbox every other week. \nBrowse through the 375\,000 high-resolution images of public domain works from the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art! \nRight now (3/18/21) you can watch Zeina Daccache’s documentary “Johar Up In the Air” on the Catharsis Facebook page!  Zeina has been making her films available for free during this challenging time. It’s a rare opportunity to watch these great films. Don’t miss it! \nThe Fourth Shakespeare in Prisons Conference highlighted Ashley Lucas’ new book Prison Theatre and the Global Crisis of Incarceration. I interviewed Ashley for the September 3\, 2020 issue of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding. \nThe Metropolitan Opera shows a new opera every day starting at 4:30 pm (PDT). Each opera streams for 20 hours. Here’s the link to the Metropolitan Opera. \nThe Portland Japanese Garden  is open again. Hurray! \nVirtual group meditation daily at  The Village Zendo    \nHost a Zoom meeting of your own! It’s easy. I’m hosting two every week. I really love seeing and hearing my friends–some of whom are far away. \nWALT WHITMAN FUN: For two years now\, we have celebrated Walt Whitman’s birthday with a group reading of “Song of Myself” on Zoom at the end of May! You can also listen to an interview I did a couple years ago on Marfa Public radio: “Song of Myself” interview with Johnny Stallings . Perin Kerns turned me on to the amazing “Whitman\, Alabama” documentary by Jennifer Crandall\, which features a wonderful array of people reading verses from “Song of Myself.”  \nFollow Kim Stafford on Instagram and get inspired on a regular basis! \nEnjoy this song from Mexico\, Mexico Lindo y Querido\, thanks to Playing for Change! \nLots of adventure suggestions at  Virtual Concerts\, Play\, Museums\, et cetera    \nGet a poem-a-day from poets.org.   \nLOTS of ideas at The Social Distancing Festival! \nThe Random Acts of Kindness Foundation is brainstorming and heartstorming ideas. Check out their website and learn more. \npeace\, love & happiness \nJohnny \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/nurturing-culture-community-without-gathering-together/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220120
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220224
DTSTAMP:20260427T063630
CREATED:20220120T221434Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220226T192407Z
UID:2560-1642636800-1645660799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  1/20/22
DESCRIPTION:Photo # 1  Yellowstone\, August 28\, 2018 (all photos by Abe Green) \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nJanuary 20\, 2022 \n  \n \nPhoto #2   Yellowstone\, August 28\, 2018 \n  \nPhotos 1 & 2 \n  \nYellowstone River (Paradise Valley). In 1806\, the Core of Discovery\, upon leaving Astoria area and re-entering Montana split up—with Lewis traveling via Marias and Missouri Rivers\, and Clark the Yellowstone. I often bring DeVoto’s edition edition of Lewis & Clark Journals along on floats here to read aloud by campfire to my fishing friends. \n  \nFriends! \n  \nI feel like I’m a member of this fantastic community of humans engaged in the fine art of self-realization! Like Stretch Armstrong (remember him?)\, I’m trying to stretch myself beyond the social\, cultural\, and religious structures that permeate our modern world. \n  \nThe big question is: “What the hell is really going on here?” \n  \nThe big answer: Well\, stay tuned. I know as I read the pages of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding and Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue\, listening to the discourse therein\, that we are helping one another. \n  \nAnd we are going in a good direction. I read somewhere\, \n  \n“Walk in a good direction\, end up in a good place.” \n  \nI thank you all—staff\, contributors\, and readers. My spirit prospers as a result of your earnest endeavor to be authentic. \n  \nAs a parting gesture\, I would like to suggest two books that have had an influence on my thinking and how I do that thinking: \n  \nSapiens: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari \nThe Constitution of Knowledge: A Defense of Truth by Jonathan Rauch \n  \nPeace and Wellness… \n  \nAbe Gren   \n2022 \n  \n \nPhoto #3  Northwest Montana \n  \nI see this often during Winter and Summer. The view is looking east into Glacier Park from the top of Whitefish Ski Area. In Summer you can ride the lift with your mountain bike\, get the same scenery\, and then trail ride down. \n  \n \nPhoto #4  Spring Crocus with bee \n  \nDew & Honey \n  \nSip by sip in thimble cup \nthe meadow bees will drink it up \nthen ferry home to bounty’s hive \nflower’s flavor\, hum and thrive \nto show us how through word and song \nby gestures small and patience long \nin spite of our old foolish ways \nWe may fashion better days. \n  \nSo\, my friend\, come sip and savor \nsyllables as crumbs of pleasure— \nby honor in each conversation \nwe begin a better nation. \n  \n—Singer Come from Afar by Kim Stafford \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #5  Storm over Fresno \n  \nWeather cell moving east after furious rain/hail storm at Fresno Dam (North Central Montana) \n  \nRain \n  \nThe Beauty in the rain is expressed \nas wildflowers on the hillside. \nThe gift in the rain is accessible  \nas the bounty of our table. \nBemoan not the lack of sunshine \nbut rejoice in rain’s gift of life.  \nFor without the rain you and I do not exist. \n  \n—From the Other Side: Poetry and Stories by Neall Ryon \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #6  Beartooth Mountains peak (South Central Montana) \n  \nSince you’re not merely a body\, it is inestimable how much of the cosmos lies within the folds of your mind. I wonder if you know how much light\, love\, and peace you carry around. \n  \n—Love & Blessings: The Autobiography of Guru Nitya Chaitanya Yati \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #7  Clouds over Bearpaw Lake (North Central Montana) \n  \nNature offers up gifts of incredible beauty every day.But first we have to be there with eyes and heart wide open\, to witness in order to receive these precious gifts. Doesn’t matter where you are: backyard\, county road\, mountains\, city park\, even a prison yard! They’re for everyone\, with no barriers of color\, gender\, economics\, or religion. She says\, “Come one\, come all.” \n  \n \nPhoto #8  Hiking Glacier Park in August (Northwest Montana) \n  \n“If you don’t make time for your wellness\, you will be forced to make time for your illness.” \n  \n \nPhoto #9  Cutthroat Trout \n  \nI see in this fish\, in the grass\, in a bird\, a tree\, an ant\, and in myself the identical notes and words of a song played and sung across the cosmos. \n  \n \nPhoto #10  Reflection \n  \nAll that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts we make the world. What we think and what we believe creates the experience we have in life. As sure as the cart follows the ox\, we are what we think. \n  \n—Siddhartha Gautama Buddha\, c. 520 BC \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #11  On Big Horn River (North Central Wyoming) \n  \nFinding delight in the moment\, no matter what the circumstances! One of my most favorite photographs. \n  \nTo be continued… \n  \n  \nAbe sent 22 photographs\, with accompanying texts. Look for the rest in the next issue of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding.  (JS)
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-1-20-22/
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