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SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  5/15/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n   \nMay 15\, 2022 \n  \nA child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; \nHow could I answer the child?  I do not know what it is any more than he…. \n  \nThe smallest sprout shows there is really no death…. \n  \nAll truths wait in all things…. \n  \nI believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars… \nAnd a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. \n  \n—from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman \n* \n  \nAlbrecht Dürer’s painting reminds me of Walt Whitman’s poem. Both were born in May—Dürer on May 21st\, 1471\, Walt on May 31st\, 1819. At the end of May\, I like to get together with friends and read Song of Myself. \n  \nMeditation and mindfulness are important to me on my life journey. They help me to see and appreciate the miraculous nature of our human life on Earth. Walt’s poem has also been a great help to me. I’ve carried it with me since I was 18. It reminds me that my self is as big as the world\, without beginning or end. It is the wisest and most exuberant utterance to come out of America. Maybe the world. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nTimely Thoughts \n  \nPeople talk of time\, \nSpeak of time with wonder— \nBut what is time\, \nWhy all the thunder? \n  \nWhere’s the lightning \nThe brilliant flash of proof? \nTangible time\, \nIntangible truth! \n  \nThis talk creates storms\, \nAnd brings nightmares to life; \nNightmares I say\, \nAnd terrible strife. \n  \nWe do not need time\, \nIt is time that needs us. \nWait\, what is time— \nAnd why all the fuss? \n  \n—Joshua Barnes © 2022 \n* \n  \nJude and Michel both wrote in response to Thich Nhat Hanh’s meditation “Long Live Impermanence.” (JS) \n  \n#273 Long Live Impermanence! \n  \n“If you suffer\, it’s not because things are impermanent. It’s because you believe things are permanent. When a flower dies\, you don’t suffer much\, because you understand that flowers are impermanent. But you cannot accept the impermanence of your beloved one\, and you suffer deeply when she passes away. If you look deeply into impermanence\, you will do your best to make her happy right now. Aware of impermanence\, you become positive\, loving\, and wise. \n  \nImpermanence is good news. Without impermanence\, nothing would be possible. With impermanence\, every door is open for change. Instead of complaining\, we should say\, ‘Long live impermanence!’ Impermanence is an instrument for our liberation.”  \n  \n—from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nMy dad had a conflicted relationship with impermanence/permanence. Here are two stories that show that conflict: \n  \nHe was a doctor and had witnessed many deaths in his medical career. His many patients loved him\, and he always showed care and great concern for them. When it came to his own life and death\, he was very clear—adamant\, even: “If found unconscious\, do not resuscitate!” To people visiting him in his late 80s\, he had a small plate with slips of paper with the note printed on it. He would offer the plate to friends as if offering a plate of Oreos. “Here\, take one\,” he’d say\, as they walked in the door.  \n  \nHe wrote his own obituary\, professing no big deal that he’d died. Closing statement: “He’s dead. There’s no more Ed!”  You get the picture. \n  \nWe three daughters knew his wishes\, so when his health was failing and he’d experienced a few hospital stays\, we were in accord as to what to do. On his return from one hospital bout\, in his very weakened condition\, my sisters assigned me to talk to him about his choices. I knelt beside him\, tears streaming down my cheeks\, held his hand and explained\, “Dad\, we know your wishes\, and we’ll honor that. You can choose to refuse to eat\, if you believe it’s time. We can’t withhold food from you\, but you can choose not to eat. Or you can choose not to drink water\, but we’ve been told that that is a very painful way to do this. So you can do this\, refuse to eat\, if you want to—we won’t force you\, you know that.” He looked at me a little sweetly puzzled and bewildered\, and said\, “But I like to eat.”  At which we all burst out laughing\, and I said\, “Well\, then let’s make you a bacon sandwich!” \n  \nThe second story is more in keeping with his credo of impermanence. \n  \nA couple years after our mom died\, Dad reignited a long-lost love story with a high school sweetie\, Ginnie. Ginnie’s husband had died also\, and she and Dad started exchanging flurries of letters between Vancouver\, Wa. and Loudonville\, Ohio. He told us he wanted Ginnie to come to Washington so they could get married. All he could talk about was Ginnie and her sweet brown eyes and soft brown hair. (We reminded him that she might look a little different at 90 yrs old than at 17.)  To test the waters\, we all made a trip to Ohio and reunited the two of them for a sweet\, five day visit. We returned to the Pacific Northwest and they kept up the flurry of lovey letter writing.  \n  \nWe noticed at some point that Ginnie hadn’t been writing anymore. No letters for several months\, so I called her caregiver in Loudonville\, and she told me\, chagrined that she’d forgotten to let us know\, that Ginnie had died! Oh no! How are we going to break the news to Dad?!?! So again\, I knelt down beside his reading chair and said\, “Dad\, I have some very sad news to tell you. I’m so sorry…but we just learned that Ginnie—your Ginnie has died.” Dad let the news sink in\, then cocked his head and said\, “Well… she was old.” \n  \nImpermanence acknowledged. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nApril 26\, 2022 \n  \nWisdom rests here. How we face\, accept and adapt to impermanence will play out in our suffering. Allow me to explain. (Read Thây’s writing first!) When I set up an ideal (not reality\, but an interpretation of how I expect reality to be) and reality doesn’t fulfill my “ideal\,” then I suffer—get upset or anxious\, etc. When I can just exist in this moment as it is with no expectations\, then I can be present\, loving\, compassionate and open to all the opportunities the now presents. I have freedom to flow with the reality as it is\, instead of fighting with it for what I want it to be\, but can’t have. Doing this I become a petulant selfish child demanding my way\, attempting to force reality to fit in my box. \n  \nSadly\, it never works like this. We’ve all tried. I have never gotten this to resolve positively; only as more suffering in now\, and later on too! Impermanence is the hero of my story of suffering. All I need to do for the thing I dislike\, or wish were different\, is wait. I don’t have to attach\, judge\, work to change anything; all I need is to accept what is. Shortly all will shift\, and over time things will change. It may not always be my idea of better\, but it will be different. If I accept\, I avoid suffering. (Acceptance does not include grasping or holding on tightly—hold with open hands.) If I attempt to control\, grasp\, hold\, define\, judge\, change—then I get suffering. Long live impermanence! \n  \nHere’s another passage from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh\, and Michel’s meditation on it. (JS) \n  \n#267  How Strange \n  \n“At the moment of his awakening at the foot of the Bodhi tree\, the Buddha declared\, ‘How strange! All beings possess the capacity to be awakened\, to understand\, to love\, to be free\, yet they allow themselves to be carried away on the ocean of suffering.’ He saw that\, day and night\, we’re seeking what is already there within us.” \n  \nApril 14\, 2022 \n  \nHow strange\, indeed! That we should spend (waste even) an entire lifetime in search of that which is already within us. We have only to awaken to what already is. Somehow that is the challenge/trial of our individual quests; to come to an end of self and a realization that what we seek is and has always been within us all along. Instead\, many run around aimlessly for years and decades and lifetimes (multiples for some)\, looking to find our relief in something/someone external. Some seek money\, fame\, beauty\, youth\, knowledge\, possessions\, status\, mates (trophies?)\, glory\, progeny\, legacy\, food\, alcohol\, drugs\, sex\, anything to excess. \n  \nCan I (you-we) stop this endless running for just a moment\, please? Look at the man/woman in the mirror. Is anything external satisfying the “itch” for which we quest to resolve? No?! Face the man/woman in the mirror; get to know him/her; learn to love\, accept\, and express compassion for him/her. And if I’m wrong (I doubt it on this one occasion) what has been lost? Nothing! You’ve only spent some time learning to come home to your true home—your true self. And if I’m right (since I’m only restating wisdom of wiser folks) you’ve started to heal and come home. Welcome home! \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \n     Desert Song School \n  \nIn this tattered paradise we left them—these \nacres of muddy reed where the maze of ditch \nand dike lets every wing and cry be sovereign— \nwhen dawn starts the chant by sweet cacophony \nof bittern\, heron\, crane and teal through mist \nin harmony oblique\, a mozart fledgling nested \nin thistledown must mutter her first yearning \nproclamation\, her aria profundo\, shrill or secret \nto split silence be she egret\, avocet\, stilt or tern\, \nibis\, shoveler\, shearling\, pelican or snipe \nto dwell inside a symphony\, to try her tune \nbefore she learns to fly or feed or seek a mate\, \nher one and only way with song\, brief life cry \nwhere waters glitter for the rising sun. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nSmall Kindnesses \n  \nLast week I thought about my mother on Mother’s Day and on her birthday\, Friday\, May 13. Sometimes these anniversaries fall on the same day. I have always liked the pause of remembering my mother and being mindful of how much of her very cells I carry with me. She died from kidney failure when I was in my early 20’s\, so this year I realized I have had 50 years of looking back on my mother’s kindness and my short time with her. I hope you all enjoyed thinking of your mom and loving-kindness.  \n  \nMother’s Day began as a holiday to mark and value peace and kindness toward all persons. Julia Ward Howe made a plea for no more sending our sons to wars. Mother’s Day had a lot of that meaning for us this year.    \n  \nKindness is something we all value. But sometimes we take it for granted. Especially small kindnesses. A couple of weeks ago\, I was taking care of my grandsons. Sylvan\, who is nine years old\, is homeschooling. He had a zoom class on African history and culture that he attended that day. There was a story about the most wealthy King in Africa\, pre-colonization. The King was especially known and loved for his generosity and kindness. The class teacher asked the kids if they could tell about someone who had been generous and kind to them recently. Or could they tell about something they had done for someone else out of kindness? The children\, who had had all kinds of things to say earlier in class\, made no comments. None of the kids had a response! The teacher even told of some small kindness done for her to prompt them\, but nooo. I talked with Sylvan afterward and I realized as a youngster he takes things for granted that adults do for him\, when he’s hungry he gets fed or helps fix the food\, or if he needs a ride his parents take him. And when he is nice to someone there’s always a good reason for working things out. It made me realize that kindness is a concept. Children are naturally living in the moment. And it’s our consciousness that helps us be kind in our actions and aware of kindness done toward us. This consciousness helps open our hearts with mindfulness. \n  \nMy friend Jennifer\, referring to the bumper sticker “Practice random acts of kindness\,” said that it’s a gift when we intentionally do something for a person to make life easier.  \n  \nHere is a poem to prompt us to be aware of kindness and how it makes us feel:    \n  \nSmall Kindnesses \n  \nI’ve been thinking about the way\, when you walk\ndown a crowded aisle\, people pull in their legs\nto let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”\nwhen someone sneezes\, a leftover\nfrom the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die\,” we are saying.\nAnd sometimes\, when you spill lemons\nfrom your grocery bag\, someone else will help you\npick them up. Mostly\, we don’t want to harm each other.\nWe want to be handed our cup of coffee hot\,\nand to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile\nat them and for them to smile back. For the waitress\nto call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder\,\nand for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.\nWe have so little of each other\, now. So far\nfrom tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.\nWhat if they are the true dwelling of the holy\, these\nfleeting temples we make together when we say\, “Here\,\nhave my seat\,” “Go ahead—you first\,” “I like your hat.”  \n  \n—Danusha Lameris\, from Healing the Divide: Poems of Kindness and Connection \n  \nHealing the Divide: Poems of Kindness and Connection is an anthology that includes poems by Ross Gay\, Marie Howe\, Naomi Shihab Nye and many others. The poems urge us in these polarized times to “move past the negativity that often fills the airwaves\, and to embrace the ordinary moments of kindness and connection that fill our days.”     \n  \nWishing you and the world\, Peace and Kindness     \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-5-15-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220519
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220602
DTSTAMP:20260426T220830
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LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T131329Z
UID:2799-1652918400-1654127999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  5/19/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \n  \nMay 19\, 2022 \n  \n  \nThe Infinite a sudden Guest \nHas been assumed to be— \nBut how can that stupendous come \nWhich never went away? \n  \n* \n  \nA Light exists in Spring \nNot present on the Year \nAt any other period — \nWhen March is scarcely here \n  \nA Color stands abroad \nOn Solitary Fields \nThat Science cannot overtake \nBut Human Nature feels. \n  \nIt waits upon the Lawn\, \nIt shows the furthest Tree \nUpon the furthest Slope you know \nIt almost speaks to you. \n  \nThen as Horizons step \nOr Noons report away \nWithout the Formula of sound \nIt passes and we stay — \n  \nA quality of loss \nAffecting our Content \nAs Trade has suddenly encroached \nUpon a Sacrament. \n  \n—Emily Dickinson \n* \n  \nO Taste and See \n  \nThe world is  \nnot with us enough \nO taste and see \n  \nthe subway Bible poster said\, \nmeaning The Lord\, meaning \nif anything all that lives \nto the imagination’s tongue\, \n  \ngrief\, mercy\, language\, \ntangerine\, weather\, to \nbreathe them\, bite\, \nsavor\, chew\, swallow\, transform \n  \ninto our flesh our \ndeaths\, crossing the street\, plum quince\, \nliving in the orchard and being \n  \nhungry\, and plucking \nthe fruit. \n  \nDenise Levertov  (1923-1997) \n* \n  \nfrom My Wisdom \n  \nWhen people have a lot \nthey want more \n  \nWhen people have nothing \nthey will happily share it \n  \n* \n  \nSilence waits \nfor truth to break it \n  \n* \n  \nCalendars can weep too \nThey want us to have better days \n  \n* \n  \nWelcome to every minute \nFeel lucky you’re still in it \n  \n* \n  \nNo bird builds a wall \n  \n* \n  \nWon’t give up \nour hopes \n            for anything! \n  \n* \n  \nNot your fault \nYou didn’t make the world \n  \n* \n  \nRefuse to give \n   mistakes \n      too much power \n  \n* \n  \nBabies want to help us \nThey laugh \nfor no reason \n  \n* \n  \n Pay close attention to \na drop of water \non the kitchen table \n  \n–Naomi Shihab Nye  \n* \n  \nHappiness \n  \nThere’s just no accounting for happiness\, \nor the way it turns up like a prodigal \nwho comes back to the dust at your feet \nhaving squandered a fortune far away. \n  \nAnd how can you not forgive? \nYou make a feast in honor of what \nwas lost\, and take from its place the finest \ngarment\, which you saved for an occasion \nyou could not imagine\, and you weep night and day \nto know that you were not abandoned\, \nthat happiness saved its most extreme form \nfor you alone. \n  \nNo\, happiness is the uncle you never \nknew about\, who flies a single-engine plane \nonto the grassy landing strip\, hitchhikes \ninto town\, and inquires at every door \nuntil he finds you asleep midafternoon \nas you so often are during the unmerciful \nhours of your despair. \n  \nIt comes to the monk in his cell. \nIt comes to the woman sweeping the street \nwith a birch broom\, to the child \nwhose mother has passed out from drink. \nIt comes to the lover\, to the dog chewing \na sock\, to the pusher\, to the basketmaker\, \nand to the clerk stacking cans of carrots \nin the night. \n                     It even comes to the boulder \nin the perpetual shade of pine barrens\, \nto rain falling on the open sea\, \nto the wineglass\, weary of holding wine. \n  \n–Jane Kenyon  (1947-1995) \n* \n  \nfrom Reconciliation: A Prayer \n  \nII. \nOh sun\, moon\, stars\, our other relatives peering at us from the inside of god’s house walk with us as we climb into the next century naked but for the stories we have of each other. Keep us from giving up in this land of nightmares which is also the land of miracles. \n  \nWe sing our song which we’ve been promised has no beginning or end. \n  \nIII. \nAll acts of kindness are lights in the war for justice. \n  \nIV. \nWe gather up these strands broken from the web of life. They shiver with our love\, as we call them the names of our relatives and carry them to our home made of the four directions and sing: \n  \nOf the south\, where we feasted and were given new clothes. \n  \nOf the west\, where we gave up the best of us to the stars as food for the battle. \n  \nOf the north\, where we cried because we were forsaken by our dreams. \n  \nOf the east because returned to us is the spirit of all we love. \n  \n–Joy Harjo  (1951- ) (Currently Poet Laureate of the United States) \n* \n  \nAt Blackwater Pond \n  \nAt Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled \nafter a night of rain. \nI dip my cupped hands. I drink \na long time. It tastes \nlike stone\, leaves\, fire. It falls cold \ninto my body\, waking the bones. I hear them \ndeep inside me\, whispering \noh what is that beautiful thing \nthat just happened? \n  \n–Mary Oliver  (1935-2019) \n* \n  \nMiracle Fair \n  \nCommonplace miracle: \nthat so many commonplace miracles happen. \n  \nAn ordinary miracle: \nin the dead of night \nthe barking of invisible dogs. \n  \nOne miracle out of many: \na small\, airy cloud \nyet it can block a large and heavy moon. \n  \nSeveral miracles in one: \nan alder tree reflected in the water\, \nand that it’s backwards left to right \nand that it grows there\, crown down \nand never reaches the bottom\, \neven though the water is shallow. \n  \nAn everyday miracle: \nwinds weak to moderate \nturning gusty in storms. \n  \nFirst among equal miracles: \ncows are cows. \n  \nSecond to none: \njust this orchard \nfrom just that seed. \n  \nA miracle without a cape and top hat: \nscattering white doves. \n  \nA miracle\, for what else could you call it: \ntoday the sun rose at three-fourteen \nand will set at eight-o-one. \n  \nA miracle\, less surprising than it should be: \neven though the hand has fewer than six fingers\, \nit still has more than four. \n  \nA miracle\, just take a look around: \nthe world is everywhere. \n  \nAn additional miracle\, as everything is additional: \nthe unthinkable \nis thinkable. \n  \n  \n–Wisława Szymborska  (1923-2012) \n* \n  \nThe Award \n  \nThough not \nA contest \nLife \nIs \nThe award \n& we \nHave \nWon. \n* \n  \nDespite the Hunger \n  \nDespite \nthe hunger \nwe cannot \npossess \nmore \nthan \nthis: \nPeace \nin a garden \nof \nour own. \n  \n\n–Alice Walker  (1944- ) \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-5-19-22/
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DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220616
DTSTAMP:20260426T220830
CREATED:20220603T002249Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220603T002249Z
UID:2870-1654128000-1655337599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  6/2/22
DESCRIPTION:painting of Walt Whitman by Rick Bartow \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n\n  \nJune 2\, 2022 \n  \n  \nWalt on my mind…and in my heart \n  \n  \nToday (5/31/22) is Walt Whitman’s 203rd birthday. We celebrated last Sunday with a group reading of “Song of Myself” on Zoom. It was exhilarating! The readers were Alan Benditt\, Steve Cackley\, Nick Eldredge Brent Gregston\, Perrin Kerns\, Andy Larkin\, Ken Margolis\, Todd Oleson\, Katie Radditz\, Jude Russell\, Kristen Sagan\, Toby Scales\, Jeffrey Sher\, Nancy Scharbach\, Kim Stafford\, Johnny Stallings\, Howard Thoresen and Max Walter. \n  \nIn the fourth issue of “peace\, love & happiness\,” we celebrated Walt Whitman. Here’s the link: \n  \nhttps://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-walt-whitman-issue-4-9-4-15/ \n  \nWe just inaugurated a Friends of Walt archive on the Open Road website. There are lots of treasures! Check it out! \n  \nhttps://openroadpdx.com/event/friends-of-walt-an-archive/ \n  \nSo\, I’ve been thinking about my friend Walt a lot lately. He published his first book of poems\, Leaves of Grass\, in 1855. It contained 12 poems\, including the one he later named “Song of Myself. (In the original edition\, the poems didn’t have names.) He sent a copy to Ralph Waldo Emerson\, who wrote back to him: \n  \n  \nCONCORD\, MASSACHUSETTS\, 21 July\, 1855 \n  \nDEAR SIR– \n  \nI am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of “LEAVES OF GRASS.” I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed. I am very happy in reading it\, as great power makes us happy. It meets the demand I am always making of what seemed the sterile and stingy nature\, as if too much handiwork\, or too much lymph in the temperament\, were making our western wits fat and mean. \n  \nI give you joy of your free and brave thought. I have great joy in it. I find incomparable things said incomparably well\, as they must be. I find the courage of treatment which so delights us\, and which large perceptions can inspire. \n  \nI greet you at the beginning of a great career\, which yet must have had a long foreground somewhere\, for such a start. I rubbed my eyes a little\, to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of the book is a sober certainty. It has the best merits\, namely\, of fortifying and encouraging. \n  \nI did not know until I last night saw the book advertised in a newspaper that I could trust the name as real and available for a post-office. I wish to see my benefactor\, and have felt much like striking my tasks and visiting New York to pay you my respects. \n  \nR. W. EMERSON \n* \n  \nKim Stafford sent this: \n  \nNeed we look further for where Whitman got his cadence than Emerson…perhaps from the essay you mentioned\, “The Poet\,” which Emerson must have composed\, or perhaps revised\, aloud\, in preparation to deliver it as a lecture\, oration\, or operatic performance. Think of the young Whitman\, after toiling on some journalistic task\, encountering music like this last paragraph of Emerson’s essay: \n  \nO poet! a new nobility is conferred in groves and pastures\, and not in castles\, or by the sword-blade\, any longer. The conditions are hard\, but equal. Thou shalt leave the world\, and know the muse only. Thou shalt not know any longer the times\, customs\, graces\, politics\, or opinions of men\, but shalt take all from the muse. For the time of towns is tolled from the world by funereal chimes\, but in nature the universal hours are counted by succeeding tribes of animals and plants\, and by growth of joy on joy. God wills also that thou abdicate a manifold and duplex life\, and that thou be content that others speak for thee. Others shall be thy gentlemen\, and shall represent all courtesy and worldly life for thee; others shall do the great and resounding actions also. Thou shalt lie close hid with nature\, and canst not be afforded to the Capitol or the Exchange. The world is full of renunciations and apprenticeships\, and this is thine: thou must pass for a fool and a churl for a long season. This is the screen and sheath in which Pan has protected his well-beloved flower\, and thou shalt be known only to thine own\, and they shall console thee with tenderest love. And thou shalt not be able to rehearse the names of thy friends in thy verse\, for an old shame before the holy ideal. And this is the reward: that the ideal shall be real to thee\, and the impressions of the actual world shall fall like summer rain\, copious\, but not troublesome\, to thy invulnerable essence. Thou shalt have the whole land for thy park and manor\, the sea for thy bath and navigation\, without tax and without envy; the woods and the rivers thou shalt own; and thou shalt possess that wherein others are only tenants and boarders. Thou true land-lord! sea-lord! air-lord! Wherever snow falls\, or water flows\, or birds fly\, wherever day and night meet in twilight\, wherever the blue heaven is hung by clouds\, or sown with stars\, wherever are forms with transparent boundaries\, wherever are outlets into celestial space\, wherever is danger\, and awe\, and love\, there is Beauty\, plenteous as rain\, shed for thee\, and though thou shouldest walk the world over\, thou shalt not be able to find a condition inopportune or ignoble. \n  \n–from the essay “The Poet” by Ralph Waldo Emerson \n* \nDuring the Civil War\, like our friend Ken Margolis\, Walt did hospice work—giving comfort to the sick and dying. He had the first of a series of strokes in 1873\, which left him partially paralyzed. His book Specimen Days was published in 1882. It’s a kind of journal that gives an account of his thoughts and experiences during the Civil War and up to the time it was published.  \nWalt continued to write poems and add them to Leaves of Grass. He revised it five times before he died\, in 1892\, at the age of 72. His friend Robert G. Ingersoll—(whose essay “Crimes Against Criminals” was featured in Issue #7 of “peace\, love & happiness”: https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-newsletter-5-7-5-13/)–gave a speech at Walt Whitman’s grave. Here it is: \n  \nAddress at the Funeral of Walt Whitman \n  \nAgain\, we\, in the mystery of Life\, are brought face to face with the mystery of Death. A great man\, a great American\, the most eminent citizen of this Republic\, lies dead before us\, and we have met to pay tribute to his greatness and his worth. \n  \nI know he needs no words of mine. His fame is secure. He laid the foundations of it deep in the human heart and brain. He was\, above all I have known\, the poet of humanity\, of sympathy. He was so great that he rose above the greatest that he met without arrogance\, and so great that he stooped to the lowest without conscious condescension. He never claimed to be lower or greater than any of the sons of men. \n  \nHe came into our generation a free\, untrammeled spirit\, with sympathy for all. His arm was beneath the form of the sick. He sympathized with the imprisoned and despised\, and even on the brow of crime he was great enough to place the kiss of human sympathy. \n  \nOne of the greatest lines in our literature is his\, and the line is great enough to do honor to the greatest genius that has ever lived. He said\, speaking of an outcast: “Not until the sun excludes you will I exclude you.” \n  \nHis charity was as wide as the sky\, and wherever there was human suffering\, human misfortune\, the sympathy of Whitman bent above it as the firmament bends above the earth. \n  \nHe was built on a broad and splendid plan—ample\, without appearing to have limitations—passing easily for a brother of mountains and seas and constellations; caring nothing for the little maps and charts with which timid pilots hug the shore\, but giving himself freely with the recklessness of genius to winds and waves and tides; caring for nothing so long as the stars were above him. He walked among men\, among writers\, among verbal varnishers and veneerers\, among literary milliners and tailors\, with the unconscious majesty of an antique god. \n  \nHe was the poet of that divine democracy which gives equal rights to all the sons and daughters of men. He uttered the great American voice; uttered a song worthy of the great Republic. No man has ever said more for the rights of humanity\, more in favor of real democracy\, of real justice. He neither scorned nor cringed; was neither tyrant nor slave. He asked only to stand the equal of his fellows beneath the great flag of nature\, the blue and stars. \n  \nHe was the poet of Life. It was a joy simply to breathe. He loved the clouds; he enjoyed the breath of morning\, the twilight\, the wind\, the winding streams. He loved to look at the sea when the waves burst into the whitecaps of joy. He loved the fields\, the hills; he was acquainted with the trees\, with birds\, with all the beautiful objects of the earth. He not only saw these objects\, but understood their meaning\, and he used them that he might exhibit his heart to his fellow-men. \n  \nHe was the poet of Love. He was not ashamed of that divine passion that has built every home; that divine passion that has painted every picture and given us every real work of art; that divine passion that has made the world worth living in and has given some value to human life. \n  \nHe was the poet of the natural\, and taught men not to be ashamed of that which is natural. He was not only the poet of democracy\, not only the poet of the great Republic\, but he was the poet of the human race. He was not confined to the limits of this country\, but his sympathy went out over the seas to all the nations of the earth. \n  \nHe stretched out his hands and felt himself the equal of all kings and of all princes\, and the brother of all men\, no matter how high\, no matter how low. \n  \nHe has uttered more supreme words than any writer of our century\, possibly of almost any other. He was\, above all things\, a man\, and above genius\, above all the snow-capped peaks of intelligence\, above all art\, rises the true man. \n  \nHe was the poet of Death. He accepted all life and all death\, and he justified all. He had the courage to meet all\, and was great enough and splendid enough to harmonize all and to accept all there is as a divine melody. \n  \nYou know better than I what his life has been\, but let me say one thing: Knowing as he did\, what others can know and what they can not\, he accepted and absorbed all theories\, all creeds\, all religions\, and believed in none. His philosophy was a sky that embraced all clouds and accounted for all clouds. He had a philosophy and a religion of his own\, broader\, as he believed—and as I believe—than others. He accepted all\, he understood all\, and he was above all. \n  \nHe was absolutely true to himself. He had frankness and courage\, and he was as candid as light. He was willing that all the sons of men should be absolutely acquainted with his heart and brain. He had nothing to conceal. Frank\, candid\, pure\, serene\, noble\, and yet for years he was maligned and slandered\, simply because he had the candor of nature. He will be understood yet\, and that for which he was condemned—his frankness\, his candor—will add to the glory and greatness of his fame. \n  \nHe wrote a liturgy for mankind; he wrote a great and splendid psalm of life\, and he gave to us the gospel of humanity—the greatest gospel that can be preached. \n  \nHe was not afraid to live; not afraid to die. For many years he and Death lived near neighbors. He was always willing and ready to meet and greet this king called Death\, and for many months he sat in the deepening twilight waiting for the night; waiting for the light. \n  \nHe never lost his hope. When the mists filled the valleys\, he looked upon the mountain tops\, and when the mountains in darkness disappeared\, fixed his gaze upon the stars. \n  \nIn his brain were the blessed memories of the day and in his heart were mingled the dawn and dusk of life. \n  \nHe was not afraid; he was cheerful every moment. The laughing nymphs of day did not desert him. They remained that they might clasp the hands and greet with smiles the veiled and silent sisters of the night. And when they did come\, Walt Whitman stretched his hand to them. On one side were the nymphs of day\, and on the other the silent sisters of the night\, and so\, hand in hand\, between smiles and tears\, he reached his journey’s end. \n  \nFrom the frontier of life\, from the western wave-kissed shore\, he sent us messages of content and hope\, and these messages seem now like strains of music blown by the “Mystic Trumpeter” from Death’s pale realm. \n  \nToday we give back to Mother Nature\, to her clasp and kiss\, one of the bravest\, sweetest souls that ever lived in human clay. \n  \nCharitable as the air and generous as Nature\, he was negligent of all except to do and say what he believed he should do and should say. \n  \nAnd I today thank him\, not only for you but for myself\, for all the brave words he has uttered. I thank him for all the great and splendid words he has said in favor of liberty\, in favor of man and woman\, in favor of motherhood\, in favor of fathers\, in favor of children\, and I thank him for the brave words that he has said of death. \n  \nHe has lived\, he has died\, and death is less terrible than it was before. Thousands and millions will walk down into the “dark valley of the shadow” holding Walt Whitman by the hand. Long after we are dead the brave words he has spoken will sound like trumpets to the dying. \n  \nAnd so I lay this little wreath upon this great man’s tomb. I loved him living\, and I love him still. \n  \n—Robert G. Ingersoll\, at Harleigh\, Camden\, New Jersey\, March 30\, 1892
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-6-2-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220615
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220715
DTSTAMP:20260426T220830
CREATED:20220616T011734Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220616T013439Z
UID:2895-1655251200-1657843199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  6/15/22
DESCRIPTION:Photo by Kim Stafford \n  \n  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \n June 15\, 2022 \n  \nFor long years a bird in a cage; \nNow\, flying along with the clouds of heaven. \n  \n(quoted by R. H. Blyth\, in Zen in English Literature and Oriental Classics\, p. 37) \n* \n  \nBuddha nature \nnot \na gift \nfrom \nBuddha \nbut \nfrom \nnature. \n  \n—Alice Walker\, from A Poem Traveled Down My Arm \n* \n  \nJoseph Campbell quotes from Ulysses and then provides a brief commentary: \n  \n“Any object\, intensely regarded\, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods.” \n  \nI mentioned this basic theme before with respect to the esthetic experience. Any object can open back to the mystery of the universe. You can take any object whatsoever—a stick or stone\, a dog or a child—draw a ring around it so that it is seen as separate from everything else\, and thus contemplate it in its mystery aspect—the aspect of the mystery of its being\, which is the mystery of all being—and it will have there and then become a proper object of worshipful regard. So\, any object can become an adequate base for meditation\, since the whole mystery of man and of nature and of everything else is in any object that you want to regard. This idea\, the anagogical inspiration of Joyce’s art\, is what we are getting in this little moment. \n  \n—Joseph Campbell\, from Mythic Worlds\, Modern Words: On the Art of James Joyce\, p. 130. \n* \n  \nKatie sent this: \n  \n”Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love\, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment\, it is as perennial as the grass.” \n  \n—Max Ehrmann\, 1872 – 1945 \n* \n  \nWell\, it’s a beautiful morning here. The sky is full of massive cumulonimbus. The wind pushes them at an amazing speed. On the big grass-covered hill the wind blows the tall grass in waves and swirls\, which makes it possible to truly see the shape and living being of the wind & how it kisses the Earth. To be allowed to partake in the beauty of life\, in the simple rite of nature & to view “life” is a gift. I know that it’s not always an easy place\, this world we live in. All we can do\, any of us\, is to live as best we as we can & don’t pass up the small moments of peace\, or the deep breaths of life’s beauty that is alive all around us. How we view life in our mind reflects in the actions of our hearts\, which are the paint brushes we use to allow others to truly see who we are. It’s the actions in deeds & words & the intent in our beings that either bind us to others or pull us apart. \n  \nThe rays of the sun are exploding through one of the massive clouds…such beauty…it can never belong to just one being\, it belongs to us all. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson (5/23/22) \n* \n  \nThis is from Nicole Rush: \n  \nAutobiography in Five Short Chapters\, by Portia Nelson \n  \nChapter 1 \n  \nI walk down the street\nThere is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in.\nI am lost.\nI am hopeless.\nIt isn’t my fault.\nIt takes forever to find a way out. \n  \nChapter 2 \n  \nI walk down the same street.\nThere is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don’t see it.\nI fall in again.\nI can’t believe I’m in the same place. But it isn’t my fault.\nIt still takes a long time to get out. \n  \nChapter 3 \n  \nI walk down the same street.\nThere is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it is there.\nI still fall in.\nIt’s a habit.\nMy eyes are open.\nI know where I am.\nIt is my fault.\nI get out immediately. \n  \nChapter 4 \n  \nI walk down the same street.\nThere is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it. \n  \nChapter 5 \n  \nI walk down another street. \n  \nI have spent a lot of my life stuck somewhere in Chapters 1 – 4. Sometimes I really just didn’t see the hole. Perhaps I was distracted. Maybe I’m just clumsy\, tripped and fell in. Or maybe it felt exciting to always be falling in and figuring a way out. Maybe it kept me from walking where I knew I should but was afraid to go.  \n  \nI was in an intensely emotional and complex relationship with my ex-husband for 21 years. There were moments I saw him in the hole and willingly climbed in just so I could be with him. Other times I saw him in there and felt thankful to be on the other side\, standing alone. And I left him there. And other times we fell in the hole together. Sometimes I was stuck down there hoping he’d hear me calling out\, wanting to be rescued\, but he couldn’t save me because I had pushed him in a different hole. He was stuck\, too\, calling out for me. And I pretended not to hear him. Then we both climbed out but we were on different sides of the street\, walking in different directions.  \n  \nThe choice was always there. I suppose sometimes I close my eyes because walking inside of the dream feels easier than being present. But when my eyes are open I see that I have a choice. I see the path I am meant to walk down\, even if it isn’t the one I am used to.  \n  \nToday I am walking down a new street. I have a vague idea where I’m going but if I don’t make it there\, I know it’ll be okay. I’m paying attention to each step I take. I’m looking out for the holes. When I see one\, I know I can leap over or turn onto a new street.  \n  \nMindfulness is like spectacles for our consciousness. Sitting in stillness\, welcoming where we are\, wherever we are\, allows us to access the clarity to witness ourselves. There’s no use in judging ourselves for being in a hole – what good does that do? It certainly doesn’t make the hole go away or help us climb out. When we see ourselves from a place of compassion we can then reach inside and touch the wisdom that is always resting there. That wisdom and awareness is what shows us when it’s time to turn the corner. \n  \nIn gratitude \n  \n—Nicole Rush \n* \n  \n(This is from Alice Walker’s book The Cushion in the Road) (JS): \n  \nLife Lessons: Gratitude Is My Only Prayer \n  \nJuly 27\, 2011 \n  \nMany years ago I was drubbed by a mysterious illness (later self-diagnosed as Lyme disease) that brought me to my knees. At the same time critics pilloried me: my work\, it appeared\, severely offended them. Moreover\, my love life crashed around my feet. Still\, one day\, after years of being under a cloud of sickness and censor\, I realized I was not only rising from my ashes\, but shining. From that time to this I’ve lost the need for lengthy prayers. I have only one\, but it is constant. Thank you\, I say\, before eating\, working\, moving. Loving. Thank you. It is enough. \n  \nThese are other “life lessons” that have helped clear my path. \n  \n   If you love doing it\, it isn’t “work.” \n  \nI have written over thirty books\, yet looking back I hardly remember the work it took to create them because I enjoyed writing them so much. It’s the same with everything: I can spend two hours grubbing about in my garden\, dazed with pleasure and intent\, and it feels like five minutes. Therefore\, before I embark on any new venture\, I ask myself: will the joy of doing this make me lose track of any concern for time? If the answer is yes\, I proceed! \n  \n   A bad mood is temporary. So is depression. \n  \nI learned this when I was much younger. I used to be depressed quite often\, a chemical imbalance made intolerable by my monthly cycle. I used to want to do away with myself. Somehow I managed to keep a journal during these periods\, tracking every weird turn in my emotional life. Over months—possibly years—I discerned something quite interesting: my moods and depressions had a beginning\, middle and end. Aha\, I thought\, I need only learn to witness them and wait them out. This I began to do until\, by my thirties\, they were mostly gone. \n  \n   To have peace of mind is to be wealthy. \n   (Also to know when you have enough!) \n  \nWhen I was much younger I thought people were made happy by the things they possessed. I also wanted things. I now have lots of things\, and I enjoy them. But if they were taken away I could still be quite happy\, though I might miss them. I’ve learned that things are not what make happiness\, but rather a calm stability of Being and serenity of spirit. The peace I experience in my own mind is my most prized possession. \n  \n   Love everyone and everything you can! \n   (They don’t even have to know about it.) \n  \nI used to think the most important thing about love was to receive it. Now I understand it is more important to feel it and to give it. That the good feeling we associate with love is generated by us\, not by a lover of us. Their love is very nice\, and I welcome it\, but the feeling of actually generating love within one’s self is so exquisite it almost leaves being loved by another in the dust! My greatest joy comes from loving everything and everyone I can. And it is amazing how big this can get! Daffodils\, coconuts\, frogs\, catamarans\, indie movies\, dogs\, bougainvillea\, tribal art\, snowstorms\, old people\, the Alps\, chickens\, my various “children\,” regardless of what they think of me\, and so on. \n  \n   When in doubt\, find a nice hammock. \n  \nPeople who work hard often work too hard. I’ve learned to take time out and swing in one of the many hammocks I have wherever I live. From a hammock the world seems quite doable\, especially if one is listening to a good audiobook and having lemonade. From my hammock I send out good wishes to all of human- and animal- and plant-kind. May we learn to honor the hammock\, the siesta\, the nap and the pause in all its forms. May peace prevail. \n  \n(This piece was written for a magazine in the Middle East.) \n  \n—Alice Walker \n* \n  \n(My old friend Marc Frank sent me this poem; ruhi ruki rumi is his pen name.) (JS) \n  \nah these words that  \nwant to come out \n  \nwho’s voice speaks \nto utter out things \n  \ni hear the inner voice \nwrite what i tell you ‘write’ \n  \ni listen to the voice within \nout of silence it comes in \n  \ni feel the feeling inside \nsounds in the head reside \n  \nwords come one after another like drops appear \n  \ntake heed take warning \ntimes are more than changing \n  \ntime to hold onto God \nno matter your thought  \n  \nif Einstein spent the last weeks of his life mathematically wanting  \nto know God’s mind \n  \nwhy wouldn’t you  \nwho comes & goes \n  \nah the intrigue of your game my eye begin to see the joke of all things \n  \n—ruhi ruki rumi \n* \n  \n#358- So Many Reasons to be Happy \n  \n“We have so many reasons to be happy. The earth is filled with love for us\, and patience. Whenever she sees us suffering\, she will protect us. With the earth as a refuge\, we need not be afraid of anything\, even dying. Walking mindfully on the earth\, we are nourished by the trees\, the bushes \, the flowers\, and the sunshine. Touching the earth is a very deep practice that can restore our peace and our joy.”  \n  \n(from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh) \n  \n…and nourished by the creatures therein\, as well. In prison\, men have infrequent opportunities to experience or interact with nature. I\, on the other hand\, am constantly living in and relating to nature. Because it is such an integral part of me\, I find that I always want to bring some experience into our discussion in the dialogue group; I am hesitant\, however\, because of the enforced paucity of nature in their daily lives of incarceration.  \n  \nBut they find a way. Five years or so ago\, an inmate described an experience that got him out of a cycle of anger\, depression\, and repeated solitary confinement in ‘the hole.’ He was in for murder and life without parole. One day while in ‘the hole\,’ he discovered a praying mantis on the floor in a corner. He was going to step on it\, crush it with his shoe\, but stopped when he noticed the mantis’ legs sawing away. He sat down and watched the mantis’ movements with fascination. When his lunch came\, he tore off a piece of lettuce and placed it in front of the creature. The mantis devoured it. The inmate continued to feed and observe the activity of the insect—water from a plastic spoon\, other bits of vegetation\, bread crumbs\, dead flies\, etc.  \n  \nWeeks passed\, and months. The mantis stayed alive because of the inmate’s care. They were in ‘the hole’ together for eight months. Over those months\, the inmate’s behavior changed\, softened\, and he realized that he wanted his life to be one of caring and not one of anger and destruction. He was released from segregation and put back into the general prison population\, and eventually was approved to join our group.  \n  \nHe never saw the praying mantis again. His story told us that even a minute connection to nature can change a life\, save a life—of an insect and of a man.  \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nThis is one excerpt from the many entries in Michel Deforge’s May meditation journal—inspired by a meditation in Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh: \n  \nMay 8\, 2022;  Mother’s Day!;  #281  Loving Words \n  \nThis is so fitting for today. So often it is the mother (or gentle nurturer) who speaks the loving words into our lives as children. For some this didn’t\, or couldn’t\, happen. For others the ideals got warped somehow. BUT\, we are not our past traumas! We can speak these words of love and encouragement into our own lives and the lives of others. When we catch someone doing a kind\, loving\, compassionate deed for any other being we can praise them privately…. \n  \nDo you speak loving words into your life? Does it sound too “weird\,” too touchy-feely (for a men’s prison—or other environ)? I get it. I’m not experienced at this either. Ponder the words you long to hear from your own mother (or surrogate)\, or father—the words rarely\, if ever\, spoken to/about you. Let go of feelings and recriminations\, guessing why these words went unsaid\, and focus on what you want to hear. Now speak those words to yourself—words of love\, compassion\, approval\, admiration\, support\, encouragement\, recognition of success\, pick-me-ups for sadness or “failure.” \n  \nWe all know the words we want and need to hear. We might even speak some to our friends\, family and loved ones; they likely need this as much as any of us. Mother’s Day doesn’t have to be the only day to celebrate our own mothers—as Carl is fond of observing—we just need to celebrate the people in our lives whom we love when it occurs to us. (This may take some effort to occur more than rarely\, but it can be done.) \n  \nI don’t know why I’ve delayed telling my friends that “I like you\,” and give a reason why\, so it’s not just patronizingly said for the sake of saying it. Yet\, I do put it off. Could it be the rare chance encounters with not enough time for meaningful speech? Probably. Must we wave and scurry on our way? Always?! What happens to my life if I write a letter\, or slow down and really greet a friend—looking him in the eyes and saying some loving words I genuinely mean? \n  \nI may be delayed a few seconds from an appointment I’m already tardy to attend. What if I never express my joy at seeing someone\, and a tragic event occurs and the opportunity is lost? While in college Psych class\, an exercise demonstrated that regrets are often easily avoided if we can overcome social fears. (We have these barriers among friends? Still?!) Will he reject\, rebuff\, stop liking me\, get weirded out by my affection or kind words…? The internal dialogue of our old neuroses and no-longer-helpful or necessary post-trauma coping skills does not serve our better selves. I don’t know how to surpass these barriers of fear—except through love. The challenge becomes being courageous enough to be first to say\, “I love you\,” “I like you because…\,” “You’re special to me…\,” “You matter in my life…” I think the picture is clear. So…why do I still stand here wanting to speak\, yet stay silent? I’m not alone in this… \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \nDear friends\,      \n  \nThis past week\, I drove along the Columbia River all the way to Walla Walla and noticed how the rolling hills of the Gorge are green. I don’t ever remember on our way to Umatilla\, these velvety brown hills ever being tinged with green. But this Spring\, well almost summer\, they are asparagus and sage green\, and they are full of yellow and purple wild flowers.   \n  \nIt was so uplifting and I felt deep gratitude for the long spring rains.   \n  \nWe were not even gone a week\, but on our return our yard looked like a tropical jungle\, the paths barely passable for the giant ferns and drooping maple branches. And the rhododendrons have the biggest red flowers we have ever had in our yard.    \n  \nI paused to think how important it is to have beauty\, abundant nature to quiet our minds to wonder and open our hearts to fearlessness and to soften.    \n  \nIn the mornings since Russia invaded Ukraine\, I join a Shambhala group in Ukraine for morning meditation. The sangha members in Ukraine feel supported by our ongoing presence and help; we foreign participants feel equal support in facing from afar the destruction and fear of the war. So familiar\, this feeling like being together in dialogue or at a play in prison.   \n  \nYesterday\, Slava\, one of the hosts in Ukraine gave his daily check in on how he and his family and town are doing. His bookshelves and Buddhist altar and photos are usually in the background. Like most zoom get togethers look. But yesterday he was outside on his bicycle in the mountains. He had taken a retreat weekend away from the war\, and he said summer had come at last after a cold spring! Just like Portland. He posted a photo that helps him remember his true nature\, calling it our basic goodness. He wanted us to be able to meditate with a picture of Ukraine that is beautiful. From a vast hill full of yellow and pink and white wildflowers the scene swept down to a river valley and mountains jutted up on the other side. It could have been the Columbia gorge.    \n  \nWhat ensued after meditation was a joyous discussion about how regeneration in Spring\, especially the beauty of blossoms\,  is this instant reminder that can help us stay centered and true to ourselves and our Humanity\, no matter how discouraging the news and life can be. A reminder even that it is not us against them\, but a confusing\, political\, global state of affairs.    \n  \nWhen we drove back home through the Gorge we got so happy thinking that in August there will be peaches again near Umatilla at Peach Beach. Hope blossoms! So here are two poems for blossoms to keep our humanity solid and our hearts open to loving life despite the sorrow it can bring: \n  \nHow It Might Continue \n  \nWherever we go\, the chance for joy\, \nwhole orchards of amazement— \n  \none more reason to always travel \nwith our pockets full of exclamation marks\, \n  \nso we might scatter them for others \nlike apple seeds. \n  \nSome will dry out\, some will blow away\, \nbut some will take root \n  \nand grow exuberant groves \nfilled with long thin fruits \n  \nthat resemble one hand clapping— \nso much enthusiasm as they flutter back and forth \n  \nthat although nothing’s heard \nand though nothing’s really changed\, \n  \npeople everywhere for years to come \nwill swear that the world \n  \nis ripe with applause\, will fill \ntheir own pockets with new seeds to scatter. \n  \n—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer \n* \n  \nFrom Blossoms \n  \nFrom blossoms comes \nthis brown paper bag of peaches \nwe bought from the boy \nat the bend in the road where we turned toward \nsigns painted Peaches. \n  \nFrom laden boughs\, from hands\, \nfrom sweet fellowship in the bins\, \ncomes nectar at the roadside\, succulent \npeaches we devour\, dusty skin and all\, \ncomes the familiar dust of summer\, dust we eat. \n  \nO\, to take what we love inside\, \nto carry within us an orchard\, to eat \nnot only the skin\, but the shade\, \nnot only the sugar\, but the days\, to hold \nthe fruit in our hands\, adore it\, then bite into \nthe round jubilance of peach. \n  \nThere are days we live \nas if death were nowhere \nin the background; from joy \nto joy to joy\, from wing to wing\, \nfrom blossom to blossom to \nimpossible blossom\, to sweet impossible blossom. \n  \nLi-Young Lee \n* \n   \nMay we be at peace\,    \n  \n—Katie Radditz
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-6-15-22/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220616T190000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220616T210000
DTSTAMP:20260426T220830
CREATED:20220611T210910Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220611T215202Z
UID:2879-1655406000-1655413200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous! BLOOMSDAY!  6/16/22
DESCRIPTION:Stephen Rea as Leopold Bloom\, from the film “Bloom\,” directed by Sean Walsh (2003) \n  \nAny object\, intensely regarded\, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods.\n \n–James Joyce\, Ulysses\n  \nBLOOMSDAY! \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!  \n  \nOn Thursday\, June 16th\, at 7 p.m. (PDT) we will celebrate together on Zoom the day in 1904 when Leopold Bloom and Stephen Dedalus wandered the streets of Dublin\, while Molly Bloom entertained a visitor at home.  \n  \nEveryone is welcome to bring favorite passages to read from James Joyce’s novel Ulysses. We will talk about James Joyce\, and about the novel and our experience of it. Here’s the link (for this event only): \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/81191011051 \n  \nThis will be fun for those who have read Ulysses and for those who haven’t.  \n  \n(For those who want to do a little homework in preparation for Thursday’s festivities\, you might take a look at Mythic Worlds\, Modern Words by Joseph Campbell\, Stuart Gilbert’s classic study James Joyce’s Ulysses\, or watch the 2003 film “Bloom\,” with Stephen Rea in the role of Leopold Bloom.)  \n  \nI hope to see you there!  \n  \npeace\, love & happiness  \nJohnny \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-bloomsday-6-16-22/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220626T140000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220626T160000
DTSTAMP:20260426T220830
CREATED:20220619T001135Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220910T225144Z
UID:2901-1656252000-1656259200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: A Conversation With Susan Griffin  6/26/22
DESCRIPTION:A Conversation With Susan Griffin\n\n  \nOn Sunday\, June 26th\, Susan Griffin was our Special Guest. She talked about the book she is currently writing\, a biography of Phoebe Hearst. She read some poems about her sister.\n\n  \nShe read from her newest book\, Out of Silence\, Sound. Out of Nothing\, Something.: A Writer’s Guide and talked about the writing process. This book will be available January 17\, 2023. You can pre-order it now from Amazon:\n\n\n\n  \nhttps://www.amazon.com/Out-Silence-Sound-Nothing-Something/dp/1640094105/ref=sr_1_1\n\n\n\n\n  \nFrom the back cover of the book:\n\n\n\n\n   \n  \n“In an elegant but contemporary voice\, award-winning author Susan Griffin breaks down the creative process step-by-step\, guiding the reader through a practical course in how to begin and end a work of literature\, whether fiction or nonfiction\, poetry\, or prose.\n\n   \n  \nThe distinguished author of more than twenty-two books…Susan Griffin distills daily wisdom garnered from more than five decades teaching creative writing and editing manuscripts\, as well as from her own writing. This collection of brief but ultimately pithy chapters designed to help beginning writers get started also guides experienced writers through blocks and difficulties of all kinds.\n\n   \n  \nOrganized according to a practical timeline\, Out of Silence\, Sound. Out of Nothing\, Something. elucidates the process of writing from beginning to end\, presenting an approach that is similar to the practice of meditation as it encourages and enlarges the mind’s intrinsic capacity for creativity. An autobiographical account\, a sometimes humorous\, at times moving essay called “How I Learned to Write” is threaded throughout the book.”\n\n\n\n   \n  \nI read Susan Griffin’s book Woman and Nature when it came out in 1978. I was 27 years old. Although my women friends were all feminists\, this book went deeper and taught me more about the history of how men had thought about and talked about women than anything I had encountered up to that time. In her book she explored the relationship between the oppression of women and the destruction of the natural world. The end of the book is a vision and a prophecy of a transformation in the way we live in and love the world and each other. \n \n\n   \n  \nWoman and Nature changed the way I see and understand the world. Over the past more than forty years\, I have returned again and again to her luminous prose in the hope of becoming a wiser and more loving person. Another personal favorite of mind is The Eros of Everyday Life.\n\n\n  \nPoet\, playwright\, philosopher\, essayist\, teacher–Susan Griffin’s books include:\n \n\n  \nWoman and Nature: The Roaring Inside Her (1978)\nA Chorus of Stones: The Private Life of War (1993)\nThe Eros of Everyday Life: Essays on Ecology\, Gender and Society (1995)\nBending Home: Selected New Poems\, 1967-1998 (1998)\nWhat Her Body Thought: A Journey Into the Shadows (1999)\nThe Book of the Courtesans: A Catalogue of Their Virtues (2001)\nWrestling With the Angel of Democracy: On Being an American Citizen (2008)\n \n\n\n  \nEveryone who came to the Zoom gathering enjoyed Susan’s warmth and wisdom.\n   \n  \n\npeace\, love & happiness\n\n   \n  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-a-conversation-with-susan-griffin-6-26-22/
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