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SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  11/15/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nAtmopadesha Satakam of Narayana Guru \nVerse 5 \n  \nWorldly people\, having slept\,  \nwake and think many thoughts\, \nEver wakefully witnessing all this shines an unlit lamp\, \nPrecious beyond words\, that never fades; \nEver seeing this\, one should go forward. \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nNovember 15\, 2022 \n  \nJohnny and Nancy are taking a break in their Guanajuato casita\, so I am writing to you today from home in Portland.  I love how your contributions of stories and poems have many creatures trotting  through them.  I have just returned from a drive through the middle of Oregon – walking in the Painted Hills\, looking for the Honey Mushroom\, learning some of our devastating past history and how small towns are redeeming some of it by what they save. People were kind\, helpful\, available all along the way.  We waved and sent best wishes as we stopped on the Columbia banks near Two Rivers on the way home.   \n  \nRose this morning\, to such a gorgeous day\, leaves drifting down in a breeze like dry rain drops.  The trees are trying to turn gold and red\, but most are hanging onto summer greens. Even though it was freezing this morning! On my early morning walk\, the lawns and meadows were bright white with frost.   Still in the magic of it\, I sense a sigh of relief in the air too now that voting is over and we are finding a new path forward.    \n  \nThay would have loved to read our newsletter too! Thank you for sharing your practice. In gratitude\, Katie \n  \nA Brief Comment on This Month’s Cover \nAtmopadesha Satakam\, Verse 5 \n  \n(Atmopadesha Satakam or “One Hundred Verses of Self-Instruction” is a wisdom text composed in the late 19th century by Narayana Guru\, a contemplative master of the Advaita Vedanta tradition.) \n  \nWorldly people\, having slept\, wake and think many thoughts; \nEver wakefully witnessing all this shines an unlit lamp\, \nPrecious beyond words\, that never fades; \nEver seeing this\, one should go forward. \n  \nThis is a verse of practical instruction about the rhythm of psychological transformations that all people undergo on a daily basis. Emerging from a deep slumber\, where there is no thought\, we find ourselves either in a dream state\, with its fantastic contents\, or we wake up and encounter a physical world\, one which triggers a stream of related thoughts\, imaginations and memories. Our thoughts come in an endless\, seemingly irresistible flow\, one after the other\, sometimes through association with other thoughts\, and sometimes just “out of the blue”. Our thoughts are pleasurable or painful or neutral\, and they shape our lives for good or ill\, seemingly often without our consent or control. As the Buddha noticed centuries ago in the Dhammapada: “what we are today comes from our thoughts of yesterday…our life is the creation of our mind.”  We experience our thoughts sequentially\, but if we could somehow step back and visualize an entire day’s worth of thoughts\, they might collectively resemble a cloud of birds or school of fish\, with individual perceptions\, conceptions and imaginations sometimes strongly but often barely related with one another. After a period of busy mental activity\, our energy is spent\, sleep eventually returns and the cloud of thoughts subsides. \n  \nNarayana Guru doesn’t say that we should manage or suppress our thoughts or aim to improve them; instead he makes a simple observation: thoughts are objects of a pre-existing self-founded awareness\, without which they could never arise. Here he paints the metaphoric picture of a lamp\, perhaps the kind of hanging oil lamp with cotton wicks familiar to people in South India. The lamp is unlit\, and “never shall go out again”. Interestingly\, light itself is invisible\, as is awareness. The Guru identifies this light\, this awareness\, as the very basis of thought and our fundamental nature. \n  \nThis basic observation can help us recognize that we contain what the Buddhist meditation teacher Chogyam Trungpa called “a source of tremendous sanity”. “Ever seeing this”\, becoming familiar with this truth and cultivating an identity with this simple awareness\, can place our thoughts\, whatever they may be\, in an entirely new and peaceful context. It’s a powerful mode of practice. \n  \n– Andy Larkin \n  \nThe Moth Vote \n  \nNo more streetlights! (Let them all go dark). \nWe will have the moon. The minnow vote: \nNo more herons! We will glitter free. \nRivers agree: Go around the opposition. \nButterflies in solidarity: Don’t pin us down.  \nSkunk’s campaign slogan: It makes scents. \nThe race for top turtle got off to a slow start:  \nEasy does it. In the possum campaign\, scandal \ngot no traction: We all sleep around. Nail-biter? \nCliff-hanger\, dead-heat\, re-count\, run-off? \nThat’s the law of tooth and claw. But in  \nthe end\, mud won by a landslide. \n  \n– Kim Stafford \n  \nThe World Calls to Us \n  \nAn owl cuts wild ascents and swoops against the dusk \nas plaintive hooting rises out of the surrounding woods— \nnight’s denizens alive on our hillside. \nOne evening with light shadowing the Coast Range \na great horned owl stood at the top of a Douglas Fir\, \ncommanding the view—still\, so still—staring at us. \nNo other sounds\, no other birds on the currents\, simply the one owl\, \nan envoy of import speaking clearly. He rose and left\, stately \nand languidly\, only to come later in the same tree with the same call. \nAnother time we heard wings glide through the air\, \nangle lower\, fly closely overhead\, soft underside \ngleaming white\, and disappear silently into the twilight. \nOwls are Athena’s animal\, symbol of haughty wisdom \nlike the goddess herself\, fierce raptors bringing insight \nand the gift of clarity\, however mysterious. \nThey come to warn of deception or lies\, they come \nto prepare us for death\, the great departure\, they come \nas a call to our quickening pulse\, our bowed heads. \n  \n– Debbie Buchanan \n  \nField Notes on Owls \n  \nWe hear the owl call every night – sometimes the Great Horned sometimes the Barred Owl (I like to think of her as the Bard of our neighborhood.) Their hoots are distinctive and it feels like they call good night to us as well as to the creatures they may be hunting.   Because I don’t have a church nearby or a land line phone\, I don’t have a  bell sounding randomly near by. I now like to think of the Owl as the bell\, reminding me to breathe\, to inter-be with all that is inside and out\, and be present to the wonder of being alive in this cosmos.   \n  \nWe also hear the geese day and night calling to one another\, or calling for us to look up\, as they migrate. It makes me wonder about the owls who seem to stay.  Do they migrate? Do they hibernate? What happens to them during the winter? Amazed that I know so little about my neighbors\, I looked up these questions. So a bit of fascinating science:  Owls basically do neither.  Owls have no need to hibernate. Their bodies are uniquely adapted to survive harsh temperatures\, making it easier for them to deal with the cold and even hunt down prey when there’s snow. For the most part\, owls do not have a need to migrate either. They also don’t have the innate instinct to migrate that several bird species have. However\, some species of owls do engage in movement during the winter. \n  \nWhen owls move\, they are moving due to a lack of food in the area and are hunting for more accessible and abundant prey to catch. This behavior is known as irruption.  A new word to me!  I hope you can hear owls where you are and will stop to listen and breathe and be filled with wonder for being alive. \n  \n– Katie Radditz \n  \nPerceiving the Presence: \n  \nThis may be a practice for me to work on\, being open to become aware of the presence of another. The idea expands to develop awareness of the Source of Life in Nature around me\, a more general awareness\, I suspect. . . . .Why or how could any of us human beings\, or any beings anywhere merit the attention\, let alone the presence of the Source of Life; why should any of us “blips” matter?  Yet\, I hope that I\, we – all of us\, do some how\, that it is possible to stand in the Presence. \n  \n(to Michael\,   question of the ages\, contemplation of the sages.  And yet\,  here we are ALIVE and co-creating together\, conscious and mindful.  Per haps we are experiencing this presence right now. Thank you for the ques tion and for your generous letter from which I could only take a portion for  this week. -Katie) \n  \nUp Against the Wall \n  \nWe all hit walls in our lives. Sometimes they seem to rise out of nowhere\, catching us by surprise. And others we “saw” them coming and still ran flat-faced into another wall.  . . . When we stop running we have time to look up and see how vast the starry sky\, the galaxy\, even the universe. Until we do there’s just forward and back\, lost in the darkness\, running. It’s in the stop where all comes clear. It’s in the stop we connect with NOW. It’s in the stop we pause to breathe. . . Look up! Revel in your place. Smile. Be aware. You’re here NOW. Exactly where you need to be. Be here\, now\, fully your self\, in this moment.   \n  \n– Michel Deforge \n  \nSonoran Desert \n  \nLittle lizard curves left\, \neyes leading as he leans \ninto the air\, \nsmells caught \non flickering tongue\, \ntoes twitching. \nMovement ripples \nthrough the ground\, \nlittle lizard\, \ndenizen of desert and stone\, \nhot sand and red cliffs \nstops a moment\, shudders \nand disappears into the chaparral. \n  \n– Debbie Buchanan \n  \nJohnny Writes: \n  \nWe all use the first person pronoun “I” every day. What does it refer to?  \n  \nThe first answer that comes to mind is: “The guy sitting here typing this: Johnny Stallings.” But who or what is Johnny Stallings? And can the “I” refer to something bigger? Here are two entries from Encyclopædia Jonnica: \n  \nJohnny Stallings. A fictional character. As Shakespeare said: “All the world’s a stage\, and all the men and women merely players.” I spend a certain amount of time pretending to be Johnny Stallings. If I don’t\, who will? A lot of the time\, though\, I feel no such responsibility or obligation. \n  \nStillness. Awake and alert\, when thought and language fall away\, a lovely state of serenity ensues\, to which there is no boundary. Indescribable. \n  \nAdvaita Vedantins speak of a universal Self that is the self of everyone. Buddhists say there is no self. Growing up\, as we learn language and create an identity\, we construct a self. Actors mysteriously become all kinds of people from play to play. How do they do that? Does the “I” of “I had an idea” refer to the same thing as the “I” of “I mowed the lawn”? \n\nWalt Whitman has inspired me to imagine what “I” might mean in more fluid ways. Who or what exactly is the self of his great poem “Song of Myself”? Here are some lines to ponder from his poem: \n  \n“I celebrate myself\, and sing myself\, \nAnd what I assume you shall assume\, \nFor every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. [1] \n  \nI am of old and young\, of the foolish as much as the wise…. \nOf every hue and caste am I\, of every rank and religion\, \nA farmer\, mechanic\, artist\, gentleman\, sailor\, quaker\, \nPrisoner\, fancy-man\, rowdy\, lawyer\, physician\, priest. \nI resist any thing better than my own diversity\,   [16] \n  \nIn all people I see myself\, none more and not one a barley-corn less…. \nI know I am deathless…. \nOne world is aware and by far the largest to me\, and that is myself  [20] \n  \nWalt Whitman\, a kosmos…. \nDivine am I inside and out\, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touched from… \nThis head more than churches\, bibles\, and all the creeds…. \nEach moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy  [24] \n  \nDazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me\, \nIf I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me…. \nEncompass worlds\, but never try to encompass me  [25] \n  \nAll truths wait in all things…. \nI believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps\,    [30] \n  \nI find I incorporate gneiss\, coal\, long-threaded moss\, fruits\, grains\, esculent roots\, \nAnd am stuccoed with quadrupeds and birds all over…. \nIn vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes     [31] \n  \nOver the white and brown buckwheat\, a hummer and buzzer there with the rest…. \nI am the hounded slave…. \nI do not ask the wounded person how he feels\, I myself become the wounded person…. \nI take part\, I see and hear the whole    [33] \n  \nI….Embody all presences outlaw’d or suffering\, \nSee myself in prison shaped like another man…. \nNot a youngster is taken in larceny but I go up too\, and am tried and sentenced. \nNot a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the last gasp   [37] \n  \nBehold\, I do not give lectures or a little charity\, \nWhen I give I give myself.   [40] \n  \nImmense have been the preparations for me…. \nCycles ferried my cradle\, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen\, \nFor room to me stars kept aside in their own rings…. \nMy embryo has never been torpid\, nothing could overlay it. \nFor it the nebula cohered to an orb     [44] \n  \nAnd nothing\, not God\, is greater to one than one’s self is…. \nI hear and behold God in every object\, yet understand God not in the least\, \nNor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself. \nWhy should I wish to see God better than this day? \nI see something of God each hour of the twenty-four\, and each moment then\, \nIn the faces of men and women I see God\, and in my own face in the glass   [48] \n  \nThere is that in me—I do not know what it is—but I know it is in me…. \nI do not know it—it is without name—it is not in any dictionary\, utterance\, symbol.   [50] \n  \nDo I contradict myself? \nVery well then I contradict myself\, \n(I am large\, I contain multitudes.)   [51] \n  \nI depart as air\, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun\, \nI effuse my flesh in eddies\, and drift it in lacy jags. \nI bequeath myself to the dirt\, to grow from the grass I love\, \nIf you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”   [52] \n  \nIf Walt Whitman’s I is so variegated and vast—what about yours and mine? \n  \n-“Johnny Stallings” \n  \nA Lion’s Pride \n  \nThe lion asked the leopard\, “May I have a spot?” But the leopard sneered and scoffed\, “Surely I think not!” \nSo the lion went on his way\, his head held high in pride\, looking for acceptance\, with purpose in his stride. \nThe lion then asked Cheetah\, “may I borrow some of your speed?” But the cheetah sped into the distance and ignored the lion’s need. \nThe lion asked Hyena\, “Will you teach me any tricks?” But the hyena only laughed and giggled while licking at his lips. So the lion went on his way again\, his head held high in pride\, looking for acceptance\, with purpose in his stride. \nThe Lion then came to a pool where the other lions drank; he sat down most unhappy to think upon the bank. \nHe looked around while waiting for his anger to subside\, and saw each and every lion brimming full of pride. \nIt was then that Lion rose in the epiphany of thought\, and sped his way through the other lions at a slow but steady trot. \nHe licked his lips and giggled\, while letting out a roar\, for in his pride he found acceptance and was wanting of no more.   \n  \n– Joshua Barnes \n(I wrote my story of the lion to my baby niece and nephew. My first short story poem. Let me know what you think; I’d love the feedback.) \n  \nThe Order of Interbeing \n  \nThich Nhat Hanh’s largest sangha\, that includes all of us practitioners\, is called the Order of Interbeing.   He would like to include the verb Inter-Be into the dictionary so that we can refer to ourselves as interbeings.  We inter-are with everything that is\, a huge but subtle difference from “we are all connected.” It’s expansive and freeing – like a response to Walt Whitman. When I grasp this\, it opens my heart to the beings around me – the lion\, the owl\, the hummer\, the lizard\, the moth.   It can move me from awareness to compassion\, beyond the I that is doing anything.   The following is my favorite writing by Thay\, especially nice to read when you are holding and looking at a piece of paper.  I am picturing you\, poets all\, now wherever you are reading.  \n  \n –  Katie \n   \n“If you are a poet\, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper. Without a cloud\, there will be no rain; without rain\, the trees cannot grow; and without trees\, we cannot make paper. The cloud is essential for the paper to exist. If the cloud is not here\, the sheet of paper cannot be here either. So we can say that the cloud and the paper inter-are. “Interbeing” is a word that is not in the dictionary yet\, but if we combine the prefix “inter-” with the verb “to be\,” we have a new verb\, inter-be. \n  \nIf we look into this sheet of paper even more deeply\, we can see the sunshine in it. If the sunshine is not there\, the forest cannot grow. In fact\, nothing can grow. Even we cannot grow without sunshine. And so\, we know that the sunshine is also in this sheet of paper. The paper and the sunshine inter-are. And if we continue to look\, we can see the logger who cut the tree and brought it to the mill to be transformed into paper. And we see the wheat. We know the logger cannot exist without his daily bread\, and therefore the wheat that became his bread is also in this sheet of paper. And the logger’s father and mother are in it too. When we look in this way\, we see that without all of these things\, this sheet of paper cannot exist. \n  \nLooking even more deeply\, we can see we are in it too. This is not difficult to see\, because when we look at a sheet of paper\, the sheet of paper is part of our perception. Your mind is in here and mine is also. So we can say that everything is in here with this sheet of paper. You cannot point out one thing that is not here-time\, space\, the earth\, the rain\, the minerals in the soil\, the sunshine\, the cloud\, the river\, the heat. Everything co-exists with this sheet of paper. That is why I think the word inter-be should be in the dictionary. “To be” is to inter-be. You cannot just be by yourself alone. You have to inter-be with every other thing. This sheet of paper is\, because everything else is. \n  \nSuppose we try to return one of the elements to its source. Suppose we return the sunshine to the sun. Do you think that this sheet of paper will be possible? No\, without sunshine nothing can be. And if we return the logger to his mother\, then we have no sheet of paper either. The fact is that this sheet of paper is made up only of “non-paper elements.” And if we return these non-paper elements to their sources\, then there can be no paper at all. Without “non-paper elements\,” like mind\, logger\, sunshine and so on\, there will be no paper. As thin as this sheet of paper is\, it contains everything in the universe in it.” \n  \n– Thích Nhất Hạnh \n  \nLook Deeply into Your Perceptions \n  \n#154 Thich Nhat Hanh\, Your True Home \n  \n“In most cases\, our perceptions are inaccurate\, and we suffer because we are too sure of them. Look at your perceptions and smile to them. Breathe\, look deeply into their nature\, and you will see that there are many errors in them. For example\, that person you are thinking about has no desire to harm you\, but you think that he does. It is important not to be a victim of your false perceptions. If you are a victim of your false perceptions\, you will suffer a lot. You have to sit down and look at perceptions very calmly. You have to look into the deepest part of their nature in order to detect what is false about them.” \n  \nI must realize that this is a difficult one for me\, because I see that just one or two months ago I wrote about Learning to Release our own Views. Ummm Hmmm. \n  \nDo I ever ‘sit down and look at perceptions very calmly’? Do I ever ‘look into the deepest part of their nature’? The more accurate question would be ‘Do I Listen to and Look more deeply into my (right wing/conservative) neighbor’s perceptions in order to discover flaws in my own perceptions? HOW CAN I? I ask you\, when his comments are constantly peppered with ‘facts’ about 2000 mules\, and massive voter fraud\, and Democratic pedophilia…what does looking deeply into inaccuracies in my own perceptions accomplish? I’m looking squarely at the ‘inaccuracies’ in his perceptions. Sorry\, but that’s the way I see it\, at least in terms of politics. \n  \nFortunately\, I can leave that on the doorstep and appreciate him for being the friendly\, helpful neighbor that he is. We share vegetables and garden tools and advice; he helps us with our interminable irrigation problems; and\, most importantly\, without our feeble requesting\, he regularly clears our driveway of mounds of snow with his massive snowplowing vehicle. \n  \nSo when I look deeply into my perceptions\, I have to admit that my neighbor is a pretty fine person…and that my perceptions are inaccurate. \n  \n– Jude Russell \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-11-15-22/
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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  12/1/22
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nDecember 1\, 2022 \n  \n  \nThis coolness! \nIt is the entrance \nTo Paradise! \n—Issa  (1763-1828) \n  \nHappy Day! There’s a new book of “Letters and Uncollected Writings of R. H. Blyth\,” edited by Norman Waddell\, titled Poetry and Zen. \n  \nReginald Horace Blyth (1898-1964) was instrumental in introducing haiku poetry and Zen Buddhism to the West. He was a student and friend of D. T. Suzuki (1870-1966)\, who wrote many books and essays about Zen. Blyth’s four volumes titled Haiku are probably what he is most well-known for. These books were a big influence on Gary Snyder and Richard Wright\, among many other writers. My favorite book by Blyth is Zen in English Literature and Oriental Culture\, his first book\, which he wrote while he was a prisoner of war in Japan\, and which was published in Japan right after World War II. (Strangely\, after being a prisoner of war\, he was tutor to the Crown Prince for 16 years!) Every time I finish reading the book\, I start reading it again from the beginning. The boldness of his thought reminds me of Emerson and Thoreau. And he’s terrifically funny! \n  \nExcited by getting Poetry and Zen\, I thought Blyth would be a good subject for the next peace\, love\, happiness & understanding. I know a couple of other people for whom Blyth is a blithe companion on their life journey. I asked my friend Howard Thoresen if he would write something. This is what he wrote: \n  \n  \nThe first thing I remember hearing about R.H. Blyth was that he “had given up Zen for haiku.” Over many decades I have sometimes suspected I got it wrong; perhaps it was Lafcadio Hearn or one of the other early western luminaries of the cult of Zen and Haiku. Or maybe I had just imagined it. But in sniffing around the internet I came across this quote from Alan Watts: “R.H. Blyth\, who was a great Zen man\, wrote me once and said ‘How are you these days? As for me\, I have abandoned satori (enlightenment) altogether and I’m trying to become as deeply attached as I can to as many people and things as possible.” \n  \nThis quote doesn’t exactly say that he “had given up Zen for haiku” but perhaps my version is like an early translation of an ancient Japanese poem into modern English. \n  \nBlyth\, as quoted by Watts\, expresses my own attitude; I am an administrative director of a Zen temple\, and I have a lifelong meditation habit\, but I have never taken the precepts; and\, when people ask\, I say\, “My Buddhism is all about attachment.” I am working for the temple because I am attached to people in the community and that attachment is a common thread running through everyone and everything in my life. My attachment to Johnny Stallings is the reason I am writing at this moment.  \n  \nIn my nosing it appears that many modern pundits think Blyth didn’t understand Zen or Haiku; the same charge is leveled at Watts and other famous English language interpreters of Chinese and Japanese literature\, some of whom never even bothered to learn the original languages.  \n  \nHarold Bloom\, in a series of books beginning with The Anxiety of Influence\, developed a theory that all reading is misreading. You can never actually know all the things an author knows\, you can never embody the author’s experience\, so you are necessarily misreading or mistranslating. \n  \n     On a withered branch \nA crow is perched \n     In the autumn evening \n                                  —Bashō \n  \nThis Blyth translation brought to my mind a famous koan:  \n  \nAn old lady supports a monk and builds a meditation hut for him on her property. After 20 years or so\, she decides to test his enlightenment. She instructs a beautiful young woman to embrace the monk and then ask him\, “What now?” The young woman does as she is told and the monk says\, “A withered tree grows on a cold rock in winter. Nowhere is there any warmth.” When the old lady hears this\, she exclaims\, “Twenty years of meditation and no loving kindness? Burn down the hut!” \n  \nA more recent translation of Bashō’s haiku by Andrew Fitzsimons would never have called up that koan: \n  \nOn a leafless bough \n         The perching and pausing of a crow \n                  The end of Autumn \n  \nSomeone else would have to tell me which is the more accurate translation or which is the better poem. \n  \nIn this haiku\, one translator sees the crow perching on a withered branch and the other sees it perching and pausing on a leafless bough. As I write\, I am seeing my own crow\, and as you read\, so are you. Even if we study the history of haiku and the history of Zen and the history of crows and branches\, we will never see what Bashō saw back in the Japan of the 1600s\, although we tell ourselves that we do.  \n  \nDid the word “branch” call up that curious koan in your mind? Probably not. \n  \nI love this theory of misreading\, although\, of course\, I am probably misreading Bloom.  \n  \nMaybe Blyth misread the ancient poets\, but those of us who encountered his many volumes on haiku and Zen in eastern and western culture when we were young (he finds haiku “embedded” in the western classics) are happy that he did. In his charming and glorious misreadings\, he opened a door to a way of seeing\, hearing\, writing and interpreting that wouldn’t have existed without him. As is similarly true of Alan Watts\, it seems probable to me that many of the pundits who sneer at the earlier popularizers of “eastern thought” owe their very interest\, not to mention their careers\, to these “influencers.” \n______________________________________ \n  \nWas R.H. Blyth a major influence in my life? Is he still? I would not have thought so\, but… \n  \nEarlier I said that my own attitude about satori resonates with Blyth as reported by Watts. Is it possible that my hearing or mishearing of this quotation back in the 1960’s—before I had any involvement with Zen and before I had any acquaintance with Blyth’s writings—had a determining affect on the evolution of my thinking? Of my way of life? Certainly it has stayed with me through all these years. \n  \nAnd many haiku\, encountered first in Blyth\, have also been lifelong companions:  \n  \n          O snail \nClimb Mount Fuji \n          But slowly\, slowly! \n  \n           You light the fire; \nI’ll show you something nice— \n           A great ball of snow! \n  \n          For you fleas too \nThe night must be long\, \n           It must be lonely. \n  \n           A red sky \nFor you snail; \n           Are you glad about it? \n  \n…and\, oh\, so many more. \n———————————————————————— \n  \nI confess I never thought much about the man whose writing had such an influence on my thinking. If anyone had asked I probably would have imagined him as a stereotypical Englishman of the early 20th Century\, wearing a bowler hat and a suit and sharing with the Japanese a fondness for proper form and tea. What a superficial and chauvinistic person I am!   \n  \nIn this new book\, Poetry and Zen\, Letters and Uncollected Writings of R.H. Blyth\, edited with an introduction by Norman Waddell\, I encounter a sort of superhuman\, who taught himself European and Asian languages (without the aid of the internet); who played a number of musical instruments as well as repairing and building organs; who worshipped Bach; who practiced serious Zen under a master’s guidance\, wrote books\, taught\, and engaged with scholars\, artists\, and politicians. He was also a vegetarian and a pacifist and as a result was imprisoned during both World Wars. He is one of those intellectuals who seem to know about everything and are able to synthesize their knowledge and share it with wit and grace. He found the insight of Zen and haiku in the western canon\, and was as likely to quote Jesus or Wordsworth as Basho. He had a friendly relationship with D. T. Suzuki\, the foremost interpreter of Buddhism to the west in the first half of the 20th Century. Suzuki praised Blyth’s haiku translations as better than his own. \n  \nBlyth’s Zen teacher was Kayama Taigi Roshi. In a passage I love\, he describes his teacher’s teishos (dharma talks): \n  \nI found them completely different from any Christian sermon I had ever heard. One thing I remember when I took sanzen with him. He told me not to smoke while I was taking a pee. This next teaching is a bit indelicate. He spoke about how you feel when after relieving your bowels your finger breaks through the toilet paper as you’re wiping yourself—and he said that when that happens you must focus with great intensity on that feeling…. I suppose he meant getting intimately in touch with your own essential filth. Having your fingers touching your own shit puts you in touch with the fundamental self. \n  \nI believe that going forward I will always think of that “breakthrough” of finger through toilet paper to shit as the quintessential evocation of Zen insight—insofar as I understand it.  \n  \nRegarding his four volumes of Haiku through the seasons\, the poet Allen Ginsberg “stressed to his class how fundamental those texts had been for the young poets [Snyder\, Whalen\, himself]—a bible\, an encyclopedia\, a primer in direct perception and use of concrete details\, as well as in the mind that was still enough to catch these and the hand that was confident enough to set them down on paper.” \n  \nSince this is a wandering\, formless essay\, I’ll repeat the story here of how I once heard Ginsberg read at Cooper Union. At the back of the hall a commotion broke out and Ginsberg\, from the stage asked what was going on. Someone said\, “There’s a huge cockroach walking around here!” And Ginsberg said\, “Let’s write a haiku about it!” and took suggestions from the audience and reworked and edited it—alas\, I didn’t write it down. \n  \nSo what could I say to summarize my experience\, my life\, with R.H. Blyth? As I think is clear from what I have already said\, he was a wonderful companion and teacher of whom I was mostly unaware. In a Zen center where we had a bulletin board\, I used to post a haiku every season; and my exercise was to read through the volume of the particular season we were in—occasionally straying. These volumes were just there—treasures of wisdom and delight\, I assumed them the way I assumed the support of my parents without considering their human fullness. Now and then I wake up for a moment and gasp\, “Did I thank my parents? Did I actually say the words to them\, ‘Thank you’ ?” But I have so many supporters\, lovers\, parents\, friends\, blades of grass—These haiku\, these tiny glimpses of eternity\, remind me to be aware\, to be grateful for all the treasures that surround me. Thank you\, Dr. Blyth! \n  \nIn Poetry and Zen (pp. 6-7\, Shambhala. Kindle Edition)\, Blyth writes about the aim of life\, so I’ll let that be the last word here:  \n  \nThe aim of life\, its only aim\, is to be free. Free of what? Free to do what? Only to be free\, that is all. Free through ourselves\, free through others; free to be sad\, to be in pain; free to grow old and die. This is what our soul desires\, and this freedom it must have; and shall have. \n  \n–Howard Thoresen
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-12-1-22/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221204T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221204T170000
DTSTAMP:20260426T115818
CREATED:20221203T085241Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20221203T182319Z
UID:3457-1670166000-1670173200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  12/4/22
DESCRIPTION:photo by Kim Stafford \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! \nKatie suggested Silence as our topic for Sunday\, December 4th\, at 3 pm (PST). I’m sure we’ll all have lots to say on this subject. \nHere’s the link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nI hope to see you there!  \n  \nlove & silence \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-12-4-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20221215
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230115
DTSTAMP:20260426T115818
CREATED:20221217T190909Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20221217T194512Z
UID:3481-1671062400-1673740799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  12/15/22
DESCRIPTION:photo by Howard Thoresen \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nDecember 15\, 2022 \n  \noften when walking in the streets of lower Manhattan or on the promenade along the Hudson River  \na young father crosses my path chatting gaily with his son or carrying his daughter on his shoulders \npointing to the statue \nor a young woman and a young man stroll beside me \ntheir bodies entwined their eyes shining the involuntary smiles \nand i sigh in the knowledge that i will never be a young father or a young lover \nor i read about some young actor who at 23 has a resume as long as i had at 60 and a better \nthe scientist\, the painter\, the family man\, the social worker\, the deep sea diver\, the marathon runner \nwhen there arises in me a longing to have another life \nto have been a different person \nto live for a thousand years \ni remember the stories of the yogis i read as a young boy—the siddhi of having more than one body and thus of working out innumerable skeins of karma which to them was a terrible task but to me sounds delightful \nthere arises another something that feels like a conviction “i am already doing this. all these bodies are mine\, not just the human but the dogs and cats and cockroaches\, the breakdancer and the ballerina\, the blah blah blah \nthese are my bodies my pasts and my futures\, i am life flowing through a million lives” \nthe guru said he had the power to enter the highest state at will and i think so do i \ni have only to shift my eyes in one direction or another and i am all beings and all being \nbut it isn’t a trance\, i don’t fall down or have to be taken care of by awed disciples \ni can continue to meander and people don’t know that i am them or maybe they do \n  \n—Howard Thoresen \n* \n  \nDec. 17\, 1834 \nThere is in every man a determination of character to a peculiar end\, counteracted often by unfavorable fortune\, but more apparent the more he is at liberty. This is called his genius\, or his nature\, or his turn of mind. The object of Education should be to remove all obstructions & let this natural force have free play & exhibit its peculiar product. It seems to be true that no man in this is deluded. This determination of his character is to something in nature; something real. This object is called his Idea. It is that which rules his most advised actions\, those especially that are most his\, & is most distinctly discerned by him in those days or moments when he derives the sincerest satisfaction from his life. \n  \n—Ralph Waldo Emerson\, from Emerson in His Journals\, selected and edited by Joel Porte\, p. 132 \n* \n  \n#264  Compassionate Listening  \n  \n“Compassionate listening is crucial. We listen with the willingness to relieve the suffering of the other person\, not to judge or argue with her. We listen with all our attention. Even if we hear something that is not true\, we continue to listen deeply so the other person can express her pain and release the tensions within herself. If we reply to her or correct her\, the practice will not bear fruit. If we need to tell the other person that her perception was not correct\, we can do that a few days later privately and calmly.” \n(from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh) \n  \nRecently in a discussion group\, we have been experiencing a certain degree of ‘dialogue imbalance\,’ I’ll call it. One or two well-meaning members have been imposing advice (and veiled judgment) upon others who are sharing their thoughts and feelings. This has caused those ‘counseled’ to withdraw and become reluctant to share. \n  \nWe all need to express shared vulnerability\, not impose answers\, solutions\, corrections or advice. Any and all of these evoke frustration and feelings of being misunderstood (and judged) instead of being heard.  \n  \nThis can be a challenge. People want to help\, and we are a solution-driven\, solution-finding society. We believe that the best way to help is to find/give answers\, when often the most meaningful help is simply…to listen.  \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \n                    I Know Nothing \n  \nI know nothing about music\, but when the piccolo  \ngot lost in the cave\, and shadows began to weep\,  \nI wished I did. That way\, I could follow the scales  \nbeading a dragon’s neck all the way to the tail\, \nmelody oozing slow as honey from the strings  \nweaving a shroud for the hangman’s daughter \nafter her singing silence robbed my sorry hoard. \nI wish I knew the first few notes violas scribbled \nto reveal how percussion crushed the grass bowing  \ntoward the river where the horns flowed fast. \nAnd when the soloist turned her words to silver  \nshining past my mind\, I wished I could mesh \nthat lingering flame burning the English horn  \nto sear my soul long after the concert ended. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nParts of Me \n  \nPart of me is ready to begin. \nAnother part is already finished. \n  \nOther parts—unknown—keep themselves to themselves. \n  \nPart of me is party to silent movies \nplaying for no one \nat a drive-in theater in the sky. \n  \nWe are all of us part of each other. \n  \nPart of me doesn’t believe that\, though. Part of me stubs its toe \non trashcans in bowling alleys\, chair legs in cemeteries. \n  \nPart of me is gripping its part of me’s head \nlike a housewife testing a melon\, in market. \n  \nPart of me’s frightened of what I just said. \n  \nPart of me wants a lobotomy\, but cries for its mommy \ninstead. Part of me’s still an egg. \n  \nPart of me’s already dead. \n  \nPart of me is the start of me. Part of me’s also the end of me. \nPart of me part of me part of me. \n  \nThe part of me that thinks it is smart of me \nto write about all of the parts of me \nis one of the very worst parts of me—take it from [part of] me. \n  \nPart of me tires of parroting you\, pardoning me\, petering out & catching the flu. \nBut part of me also revels in blue\, resorts to leaving the zoo. \n  \nPart of me finds it hard to write \nwhen part of someone else \nis reading over part of me’s shoulder. \n  \nPart of me never knows how far apart \nthe parts of me are. \n  \nPart of me’s tired of faltering\, and in the end\, \nthe art of me consists of weaving together the far-flung parts of me. \n  \nPart of me parts the curtains and shows you all of me. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nSometimes I sit down to write a poem and sometimes I’m writing in my journal and something I’ve written seems like it could be a little poem. Here are some old and some recent examples: \n  \nWhat the Crow Said \n  \n“Caw\,” said the crow \nI didn’t say anything \nI just wrote down what the crow said \n* \n  \nMy Retirement Plan \n  \nI’m waiting for the elves to arrive \nwith bags of gold \n* \n  \na guy drives by in a blue car \ncovered with cherry blossom petals \n* \n  \ncouple of guys \nunloading mattresses \nfrom a Frito-Lay truck \nwhat the hell is going on? \n* \n  \nlast night I was playing miniature golf in my dream \n* \n  \ncold night \nsitting by the woodstove \nthe happiest man alive \n* \n  \nholy holy holy is the bean plant \ncup of coffee \nthe stuffed animals on the window sill \nthat have been loved unto baldness \nthe song sparrow \nthe sunlight \nand even the man sitting at his laptop \nfailing once again to say the unsayable \n* \n  \nChristmas Prayer \n  \nThank you\, Jesus\, \nfor giving me this day off work. \n* \n  \nthe Buddha’s best sermon \nwas when he gave that guy a flower \n* \n  \nY’know those paperweights \nwith a little house \nand little trees \nand if you turn it upside-down \nand then rightside-up again \nit snows? \nI’m sitting in that little house. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nMarcus Aurelius vs. Marie Howe \n  \nI have been in the habit these past weeks of picking up Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations and finding a quote to ponder for the day. There was one quote last week that became the center of my conversations with three very different people. \n  \nLook attentively on each particular thing you do\, and ask yourself if death be a terror because it deprives you of this. \n  \nWow. I was immediately struck by how profound this statement is. To me\, this is a reminder to pay close attention and choose wisely how each day is spent. And then I started to feel a little insignificant. Marcus Aurelius\, was\, after all\, an emperor\, and wrote Meditations as a record for himself of self-improvement. Perhaps the idea of looking so closely through the lens of death robbing me of such importance is not for the everyday person. \n  \nI shared this quote with my daughter and we discussed my thoughts as I continued to chew on its meaning and she sat back for a moment and then said\, “Yeah but what about What the Living Do?” \n  \nWhat the Living Do is a poem within a book of the same name written by Marie Howe. Howe wrote the collection of poems about her brother who died of AIDS-related complications in his 20s. The poem simply and eloquently reminds us that the everyday moments – both good\, bad and indifferent – are what make up a human life.  \n  \nWhen I look back at my 48 years lived\, which includes the birth of four children\, a marriage\, a divorce and falling in love again\, these big life events are not what stand out to me. Life is driving through Delaware in July at sunset and seeing people in their Sunday best eating ice cream cones. Life is smelling the perfume my mother wore when she’d get dressed up and go out on the town – the scent taking me back to sitting on her bed as a child\, watching her put her jewelry on. Life is listening to my son tell me casually about his day on the ride home from school\, my heart filling up with his words\, unbeknownst to him. And life is feeling butterflies on a morning walk through my neighborhood in summer as I resonate on the poem from my lover as I swiftly prance down the sidewalk\, smelling every rose I can reach to stick my nose into. \n  \nThe ordinary is the extraordinary. And when I look again at what Marcus Aureilus has to say\, I think he understood this as well. It isn’t about what we do but how we perceive. It is in the looking that we can spot the miracles.  \n  \nWhat the Living Do \n  \nJohnny\, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days\, some \nutensil probably fell down there. \nAnd the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous\, and the \ncrusty dishes have piled up \nwaiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the \neveryday we spoke of. \nIt’s winter again: the sky’s a deep\, headstrong blue\, and the \nsunlight pours through \nthe open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in \nhere and I can’t turn it off. \nFor weeks now\, driving\, or dropping a bag of groceries in the \nstreet\, the bag breaking\, \nI’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday\, \nhurrying along those \nwobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk\, spilling my coffee \ndown my wrist and sleeve\, \nI thought it again\, and again later\, when buying a hairbrush: \nThis is it. \nParking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you \ncalled that yearning. \nWhat you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the \nwinter to pass. We want \nwhoever to call or not call\, a letter\, a kiss—we want more and \nmore and then more of it. \nBut there are moments\, walking\, when I catch a glimpse of \nmyself in the window glass\, \nsay\, the window of the corner video store\, and I’m gripped by a \ncherishing so deep \nfor my own blowing hair\, chapped face\, and unbuttoned coat \nthat I’m speechless: \nI am living. I remember you. \n  \n—poem by Marie Howe \n  \n—Nicole Rush \n* \n  \nNovember 2\, 2022  CALL OF THE HEART \n  \nThe initial bedrock from which speech grows is the voice. \nWhen the voice is born\, before words and prior to sentences\, \none’s desires are already beginning to sprout. \nBeing revealed is the possibility of the turning to another\, of a conversation. \n  \nThe voice precedes words. \nThe way the words of the prayer sound becomes their meaning\, \npaving for them a path to their destination. \nIt’s as if the melody of the prayer \nlifts the words on its wings\, \nwhispers between the pages of the prayerbook\, \namongst the prayer shawls\, \nascends from the place of prayer to the Holy Ark\, \nsoars through the windows\, out to the boundless skies.   \n  \n—from Prepare My Prayer by Rabbi Dov Singer \n  \nThis causes me to think of infants\, to wonder at the sounds. The process of self-discovery\, of self-awareness; hearing the sounds\, giving meaning\, learning speech\, communicating needs and wants. Primal\, unyielding. With age comes inhibitions\, filters\, separating the sounds from the heart connecting to the mind. Struggle begins to communicate what is felt\, using only words. And it fails—miserably. Life then moves on\, striving to reconnect mind and heart. Each strives and finds a way\, in time. Sound and heart rejoin; satisfying communication resumes. Heart and mind join as one. \n  \nThis is the struggle\, to communicate with heart and mind in one voice to convey deepest feelings\, sensations to another. Reaching out with voice to connect\, to be heard\, to be seen. Finding others\, uniting in common cause\, raising voices on high\, drawing close. We reach out\, yearning to connect\, finding our voices\, expressing heart’s desires. Throughout life we continue to use voice and sound\, still striving to communicate as we did when infants\, crying out from the heart to the One who hears. \n  \n—Michel Deforge
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-12-15-22/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221218T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221218T170000
DTSTAMP:20260426T115818
CREATED:20221216T163958Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20221221T005802Z
UID:3469-1671375600-1671382800@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Annual Group Reading of A Christmas Carol
DESCRIPTION:illustration by Arthur Rackham \n  \nHappy Holidays\, Everyone!  \n  \nOn Sunday\, December 18\, at 3 p.m. (PST)\, we will have our annual group reading of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.  \n  \nTodd Oleson of Walla Walla\, Washington\, and Keith Scales of Eureka Springs\, Arkansas will be among the stellar cast. Gather round the warm light of your computer screen and enjoy this wonderful tale of love and transformation.  \n  \nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nBring the kids & grandkids!  \n  \n  \nAs Tiny Tim says:  \nGod Bless Us\, Every One! \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-annual-group-reading-of-a-christmas-carol/
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