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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  3/2/23
DESCRIPTION:photograph by Kim Stafford \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nMarch 2\, 2023 \n  \nI invited some friends to… \n…please send me one of your favorite poems and say a little bit about why you like it. Here’s what people sent: \n  \nVernal Sentiment \n  \nThough the crocuses poke up their heads in the usual places\,\nThe frog scum appear on the pond with the same froth of green\,\nAnd boys moon at girls with last year’s fatuous faces\,\nI never am bored\, however familiar the scene. \n  \nWhen from under the barn the cat brings a similar litter\,—\nTwo yellow and black\, and one that looks in between\,—\nThough it all happened before\, I cannot grow bitter:\nI rejoice in the spring\, as though no spring ever had been. \n  \n—Theodore Roethke \n  \nI think why I am so fond of this poem and tend to read it every spring\, often many times\, is that it captures perfectly my delight and joy as the subtle and sometimes not so subtle signs of spring emerge. And yes\, “I (truly) rejoice in the spring\, as though no spring ever had been.” This short poem seems almost perfect to me and brings me joy just as witnessing the first signs of the pussy willows\, the first call of the returning robins\, the glorious scent of daphne wafting over the damp air\, enlivens me and gets my pulse slightly elevated. Roethke masterfully captures the delight that is so available in the ordinary!!. I believe that we all need to pay more attention to these ordinary miracles that reveal themselves if we pay attention. \n  \nCheers my friend! \n  \n—Jeffrey Sher \n* \n  \nAfter an Illness\, Walking the Dog \n  \nWet things smell stronger\,\nand I suppose his main regret is that\nhe can sniff just one at a time.\nIn a frenzy of delight\nhe runs way up the sandy road—\nscored by freshets after five days\nof rain. Every pebble gleams\, every leaf. \n  \nWhen I whistle he halts abruptly\nand steps in a circle\,\nswings his extravagant tail.\nThe he rolls and rubs his muzzle\nin a particular place\, while the drizzle\nfalls without cease\, and Queen Anne’s lace \nand Goldenrod bend low. \n  \nThe top of the logging road stands open\nand light. Another day\, before\nhunting starts\, we’ll see how far it goes\,\nleaving word first at home.\nThe footing is ambiguous. \n  \nSoaked and muddy\, the dog drops\,\npanting\, and looks up with what amounts\nto a grin. It’s so good to be uphill with him\,\nnicely winded\, and looking down on the pond. \n  \nA sound commences in my left ear\nlike the sound of the sea in a shell;\na downward\, vertiginous drag comes with it.\nTime to head home. I wait\nuntil we’re nearly out to the main road\nto put him back on the leash\, and he\n—the designated optimist— \n  \nimagines to the end that he is free. \n  \n—Jane Kenyon \n  \nI like the designated optimist and think of him or her often. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nMy favorite poems….of the moment! \nAnd I’m cheating a bit as I am sending in two short ones\, from two extremely different writers and I list the books they are from as the books are quite spectacular. \n  \nFirst: \nUntitled. From Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings by Joy Harjo. Really the entire book is an intact work but here is a current favorite small poem. Harjo is Creek/Muskogee\, writes intimately from within a native community\, is a former US Poet Laureate and a jazz saxophonist. \n  \nI thought of all the doors that had opened and closed. \nI thought of how so many I loved were no longer on \nThis earth. I thought of all my mother’s songs looking \nFor a place to live. I thought of all the Saturdays in the  \nWorld. I started with G and rounded the bend at B-flat. \nI followed my soul. \n  \n—Joy Harjo \n  \nSecond: \n“A Meadow” from Facing the River by Czeslaw Milosz. Again the book is really a unit\, written after returning to his native village after being in exile for fifty years. He grew up in then-Lithuania\, now Poland\, survived the Nazi invasion\, the Soviet invasion and then Occupation. He first served with the Communist government but soon left. He won the Nobel prize for Literature. \n  \nIt was a riverside meadow\, lush\, from before the hay harvest\, \nOn an immaculate day in the sun of June. \nI searched for it\, found it\, recognized it. \nGrasses and flowers grew there familiar in my childhood. \nWith half-closed eyelids I absorbed luminescence. \nAnd the scent garnered me\, all knowing ceased. \nSuddenly I felt I was disappearing and weeping with joy.  \n  \n—Czeslaw Milosz \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nThe Waking \n  \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \nI feel my fate in what I cannot fear. \nI learn by going where I have to go. \n  \nWe think by feeling. What is there to know? \nI hear my being dance from ear to ear. \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \n  \nOf those so close beside me\, which are you? \nGod bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there\, \nAnd learn by going where I have to go. \n  \nLight takes the Tree; but who can tell us how? \nThe lowly worm climbs up a winding stair; \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow.  \n  \nThis shaking keeps me steady. I should know.  \nWhat falls away is always. And is near. \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \nI learn by going where I have to go. \n  \n—Theodore Roethke \n  \nHands down my favorite poem. Every morning when I wake up\, I try to not be in a rush\, or have a plan\, but let life take me slowly into the day\, and learn from where it takes me. \n  \n—Dave Duncan \n* \n  \nHere’s my submission to your beautiful request\, and I will say it might not be my “favorite” poem but it is an artifact in my younger life when I somehow imparted the power of poetry to my two now grown daughters. \n  \nEaster\, 1916 \n  \nI have met them at close of day    \nComing with vivid faces \nFrom counter or desk among grey    \nEighteenth-century houses. \nI have passed with a nod of the head    \nOr polite meaningless words\,    \nOr have lingered awhile and said    \nPolite meaningless words\, \nAnd thought before I had done    \nOf a mocking tale or a gibe    \nTo please a companion \nAround the fire at the club\,    \nBeing certain that they and I    \nBut lived where motley is worn:    \nAll changed\, changed utterly:    \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \nThat woman’s days were spent    \nIn ignorant good-will\, \nHer nights in argument \nUntil her voice grew shrill. \nWhat voice more sweet than hers    \nWhen\, young and beautiful\,    \nShe rode to harriers? \nThis man had kept a school    \nAnd rode our wingèd horse;    \nThis other his helper and friend    \nWas coming into his force; \nHe might have won fame in the end\,    \nSo sensitive his nature seemed\,    \nSo daring and sweet his thought. \nThis other man I had dreamed \nA drunken\, vainglorious lout. \nHe had done most bitter wrong \nTo some who are near my heart\,    \nYet I number him in the song; \nHe\, too\, has resigned his part \nIn the casual comedy; \nHe\, too\, has been changed in his turn\,    \nTransformed utterly: \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \nHearts with one purpose alone    \nThrough summer and winter seem    \nEnchanted to a stone \nTo trouble the living stream. \nThe horse that comes from the road\,    \nThe rider\, the birds that range    \nFrom cloud to tumbling cloud\,    \nMinute by minute they change;    \nA shadow of cloud on the stream    \nChanges minute by minute;    \nA horse-hoof slides on the brim\,    \nAnd a horse plashes within it;    \nThe long-legged moor-hens dive\,    \nAnd hens to moor-cocks call;    \nMinute by minute they live:    \nThe stone’s in the midst of all. \n  \nToo long a sacrifice \nCan make a stone of the heart.    \nO when may it suffice? \nThat is Heaven’s part\, our part    \nTo murmur name upon name\,    \nAs a mother names her child    \nWhen sleep at last has come    \nOn limbs that had run wild.    \nWhat is it but nightfall? \nNo\, no\, not night but death;    \nWas it needless death after all? \nFor England may keep faith    \nFor all that is done and said.    \nWe know their dream; enough \nTo know they dreamed and are dead;    \nAnd what if excess of love    \nBewildered them till they died?    \nI write it out in a verse— \nMacDonagh and MacBride    \nAnd Connolly and Pearse \nNow and in time to be\, \nWherever green is worn\, \nAre changed\, changed utterly:    \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \n—William Butler Yeats \n  \n—Mark Danley \n* \n  \nMy favorite poem has often been one by T’ao Ch’ien (365-427 A.D. )\, translated by David Hinton. Here is this one: \n  \nTogether\, We all go out Under the Cypress Trees in the Chou Family Burial-Grounds \n  \nToday’s skies are perfect for a clear  \nflute and singing koto. And touched  \nthis deeply by those laid under these \ncypress trees\, how could we neglect joy? \nClear songs drift away anew. Emerald wine \nstarts pious faces smiling. No knowing \nwhat tomorrow brings\, it’s exquisite  \nexhausting whatever i feel here and now. \n  \n—T’ao Ch’ien \n  \nI feel T’ao Ch’ien as present as my Great Aunt Emma\, who knew much deprivation but was so joyful that we would arrive for a visit to the Farm. We would sit out in the grass looking for four leaf clovers for hours\, and she would bake us blackberry pies. \n  \nI like to write back to T’ao Ch’ien—over many years now. He has inspired me to stop\, be in the wild\, appreciate the moment as beauty at the same time\, feeling all that’s been lost and is gone. And he led me to the Buddhist sutras!!  \n  \nI also love to find another poet respond to him\, like Billy Collins does\, below. Though it may not be for T’ao Ch’ien himself\,  it’s across time and distance\, enchanted still in the twentieth century by what they wrote in the the fifth.     \n  \nReading an Anthology of Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty\, I pause to Admire the Length and Clarity of their Titles \n  \nIt seems these poets have nothing \nup their ample sleeves \nthey turn over so many cards so early\, \ntelling us before the first line \nwhether it is wet or dry\, \nnight or day\, the season the man is standing in\, \neven how much he has had to drink. \n  \nMaybe it is autumn and he is looking at a sparrow. \nMaybe it is snowing on a town with a beautiful name. \n  \n“Viewing Peonies at the Temple of Good Fortune \non a Cloudy Afternoon” is one of Sun Tung Po’s. \n“Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea” \nis another one\, or just \n“On a Boat\, Awake at Night.” \n  \nAnd Lu Yu takes the simple rice cake with \n“In a Boat on a Summer Evening \nI Heard the Cry of a Waterbird. \nIt Was Very Sad and Seemed To Be Saying \nMy Woman Is Cruel—Moved\, I Wrote This Poem.” \n  \nThere is no iron turnstile to push against here \nas with headings like “Vortex on a String\,” \n“The Horn of Neurosis\,” or whatever. \nNo confusingly inscribed welcome mat to puzzle over. \n  \nInstead\, “I Walk Out on a Summer Morning \nto the Sound of Birds and a Waterfall” \nis a beaded curtain brushing over my shoulders. \n  \nAnd “Ten Days of Spring Rain Have Kept Me Indoors” \nis a servant who shows me into the room \nwhere a poet with a thin beard \nis sitting on a mat with a jug of wine \nwhispering something about clouds and cold wind\, \nabout sickness and the loss of friends. \n  \nHow easy he has made it for me to enter here\, \nto sit down in a corner\, \ncross my legs like his\, and listen. \n  \n—Billy Collins \n  \n —Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nMay I never be complete \nMay I never be content \nMay I never be perfect \n  \nFrom Fight Club! I remember reading that over 10 years ago and being inspired by the hidden beauty of a concept like willing ones self to never want completeness… I’m going to always be learning growing struggling to figure out what the hell I am on this Giant beautiful rock… It’s not easy to accept flaws… growing… Being content as in settled in\, not striving to learn… it’s a beautiful sentiment… That’s my fav poem… That I’ll prolly get tattooed someday. \n  \n—Jeff Kuehner \n* \n  \nMax Ritvo is one of my favorite poets\, and “Afternoon” is my favorite poem by him. He died young\, of cancer\, and he produced a great deal of work during his final years\, while he was very sick. I find much to admire in this poem\, but perhaps what stays with me the most\, and will always stay with me\, is the fountain. I won’t spoil it. Just read the poem and see for yourself. \n  \nAfternoon \n  \nWhen I was about to die \nmy body lit up \nlike when I leave my house \nwithout my wallet. \n  \nWhat am I missing? I ask \npatting my chest \npocket. \nand I am missing everything living \nthat won’t come with me \ninto this sunny afternoon \n  \n—my body lights up for life \nlike all the wishes being granted in a fountain \nat the same instant— \nall the coins burning the fountain dry— \n  \nand I give my breath \nto a small bird-shaped pipe. \n  \nIn the distance\, behind several voices \nhaggling\, I hear a sound like heads \nclicking together. Like a game of pool\, \n  \nplayed with people by machines. \n  \n—Max Ritvo \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nValentine \n  \nOn the eve of the apocalypse\,\nthe wild turkeys are tuning up for their dance\, flared\nstately stepping upon the new fallen snow\nI continue to ponder \n  \nRuby Crowned Kinglet.\nHe is fixed in my mind because\nunknown to him\,\nset upon a background of olive green feathers\nembering with gold and\nfloating above his brain there glows\na fire ruby jewel. \n  \nLike the mandalas radiating from ancient bodhisattvas\,\nthe feathered crown of hunter gatherer peoples\, branched trees on\nthe halos of saints\, the heads of shamans\nthat they say all together\,\nlook how I see you.\nSee how you look through my open heart. \n  \n—Ken Hunt \n  \nKen Hunt is an artist\, saddle-maker\, horse-trainer living in a remote canyon in NE Oregon\, and he has a vibrant sense of his place and the creatures there. He lives close to all kinds of wild beings\, and in this poem brings them close to us\, so close they can see through our eyes and hearts. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nDeb thought another poem would not go amiss\, so she invited me to join your party this once. \n  \nAmong lots of favorite poems\, Frost’s “Mending Wall” has grown in depth to me for my whole life. Frost’s simple example demonstrates how we sabotage unity by drawing thick lines between groups and positions\, and then fighting over them. The poem details how we carefully resurrect these divisions\, where they aren’t needed. The conflict is merely hinted at. \n  \nOnce\, after I had written about the poem in my weekly blog\, a friend told me that the PM of Israel\, don’t recall which\, had recently cited the poem to justify their apartheid: “good fences make good neighbors.” Of course\, this is the antithesis of the poem\, but how many tumultuous patriots would have known this? On behalf of Frost’s dignity and immense compassion\, I humbly offer perhaps his greatest poem\, though it does have competitors in his oeuvre. \n  \nMending Wall \n  \nSomething there is that doesn’t love a wall\, \nThat sends the frozen-ground-swell under it\, \nAnd spills the upper boulders in the sun; \nAnd makes gaps even two can pass abreast. \nThe work of hunters is another thing: \nI have come after them and made repair \nWhere they have left not one stone on a stone\, \nBut they would have the rabbit out of hiding\, \nTo please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean\, \nNo one has seen them made or heard them made\, \nBut at spring mending-time we find them there. \nI let my neighbor know beyond the hill; \nAnd on a day we meet to walk the line \nAnd set the wall between us once again. \nWe keep the wall between us as we go. \nTo each the boulders that have fallen to each. \nAnd some are loaves and some so nearly balls \nWe have to use a spell to make them balance: \n‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’ \nWe wear our fingers rough with handling them. \nOh\, just another kind of out-door game\, \nOne on a side. It comes to little more: \nThere where it is we do not need the wall: \nHe is all pine and I am apple orchard. \nMy apple trees will never get across \nAnd eat the cones under his pines\, I tell him. \nHe only says\, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ \nSpring is the mischief in me\, and I wonder \nIf I could put a notion in his head: \n‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it \nWhere there are cows? But here there are no cows. \nBefore I built a wall I’d ask to know \nWhat I was walling in or walling out\, \nAnd to whom I was like to give offense. \nSomething there is that doesn’t love a wall\, \nThat wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him\, \nBut it’s not elves exactly\, and I’d rather \nHe said it for himself. I see him there \nBringing a stone grasped firmly by the top \nIn each hand\, like an old-stone savage armed. \nHe moves in darkness as it seems to me\, \nNot of woods only and the shade of trees. \nHe will not go behind his father’s saying\, \nAnd he likes having thought of it so well \nHe says again\, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ \n  \n—Robert Frost \n  \n—Scott Teitsworth \n* \n  \nThat Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” is my all-time favorite poem is a well-known fact (among my friends)\, but I have many favorite poems. In the not-too-distant past (five years ago\, maybe?) I had the great good fortune to come upon the writings of Thomas Traherne (1637-1674). His poems and meditations were first published in 1903\, ten years after they were rediscovered in manuscript—229 years after his death. I often start the day by reading a poem and/or a meditation by him. His wild delight is contagious. He helps me to get the day off to a glorious start. The first four poems in The Collected Works of Thomas Traherne are all sublime: “The Salutation\,” “Wonder\,” “Eden\,” and “Innocence.” Here’s the first: \n  \nThe Salutation \n  \n         These little limbs\, \n    These eyes and hands which here I find\, \nThese rosy cheeks wherewith my life begins\, \n    Where have ye been? behind \nWhat curtain were ye from me hid so long? \nWhere was\, in what abyss\, my speaking tongue? \n  \n         When silent I    \n    So many thousand\, thousand years \nBeneath the dust did in a chaos lie\, \n    How could I smiles or tears\, \nOr lips or hands or eyes or ears perceive? \nWelcome ye treasures which I now receive. \n  \n         I that so long \n    Was nothing from eternity\, \nDid little think such joys as ear or tongue \n    To celebrate or see: \nSuch sounds to hear\, such hands to feel\, such feet\, \nBeneath the skies on such a ground to meet. \n  \n         New burnished joys\, \n    Which yellow gold and pearls excel! \nSuch sacred treasures are the limbs in boys\, \n    In which a soul doth dwell; \nTheir organised joints and azure veins \nMore wealth include than all the world contains. \n  \n         From dust I rise\, \n    And out of nothing now awake; \nThese brighter regions which salute mine eyes\, \n    A gift from God I take. \nThe earth\, the seas\, the light\, the day\, the skies\, \nThe sun and stars are mine\, if those I prize. \n  \n         Long time before \n    I in my mother’s womb was born\, \nA God preparing did this glorious store \n    The world for me adorn. \nInto this Eden so divine and fair\, \nSo wide and bright\, I come His son and heir. \n  \n         A stranger here \n    Strange things doth meet\, strange glories see; \nStrange treasures lodged in this fair world appear\, \n    Strange all and new to me; \nBut that they mine should be\, who nothing was\, \nThat strangest is of all\, yet brought to pass. \n  \n—Thomas Traherne \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nI Corinthians\, Chapter 13\, which ends: \n  \nLove never faileth: but whether there be prophecies\, they shall fail; whether there be tonguers\, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge\, it shall vanish away. \nFor we know in part\, and we prophesy in part. \nBut when that which is perfect is come\, then that which is in part shall be done away. \nWhen I was a child\, I spake as a child\, I understood as a child\, thought as a child: but when I became a man\, I put away childish things. \nFor now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part: but then shall I know even as also I am known. \nAnd now abideth faith\, hope\, and love\, these three; but the greatest of these is love. \n  \n—Ken Margolis
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-3-2-23/
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SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  3/15/23
DESCRIPTION:photo by Kim Stafford \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nMarch 15\, 2023 \n  \nAny object\, intensely regarded\, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods. \n  \n—from Ulysses by James Joyce\, p. 340 \n* \n  \nAll truths wait in all things. \n  \n—from “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman \n* \n  \n#344  To Cherish Your Beloved   \n                                                  \n“When we know that the person we love is impermanent\, we will cherish our beloved all the more. Impermanence teaches us to respect and value every moment and all the precious things around us. When we practice mindfulness of impermanence\, we become fresher and more loving.” \n–from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nIt can be mighty hard to be constantly aware of our beloved’s impermanence—or of our own impermanence\, and to be endlessly fresher and more loving. That can be exhausting\, to be honest. \n  \nAnother way to be reminded of cherishing your loved one is to have someone close to you die swiftly and unexpectedly. This is happening right now\, in this moment. Kim is my dear friend\, and her husband\, who is/was my dear friend\, too\, just died two days ago. He collapsed at home while Kim and I were walking on the waterfront and having coffee in Hood River\, as we do once a week or more. She returned home\, intending to run errands with John and found him on the floor\, unresponsive\, unconscious. 911\, Skyline Hospital\, Emanuel Hospital in Portland\, where doctors found a blood clot which had traveled to his brain from the left ventricle\, causing multiple\, massive strokes. And John is gone. How does one express shock and disbelief and utter grief…  So here it is: Impermanence at work. \n  \nMy heart and soul are with her right now. I love her and want to hold her close. But the one I also really want to hold close is my husband. I am instantly drawn to cherish him and all we have together\, all we have had for 39 years together. He is in Arizona right now\, and I will fly down next week. I call him and tell him I love him dearly\, and thank him for the life we have together. I tell him I miss him and can’t wait to hold him and be held.  \n  \nI am aware that this is how I always want to be with him\, this expressive and caring and loving\, and maybe\, just maybe\, I will be able to cherish my beloved due to the impermanence (and sacrifice) of another.  \n  \n—Jude Russell  \n* \n  \nSmall Offering \n  \nThis evening I would be the emperor of delay \nif I could order the small bird with bluish \nplumage to drop his fish and look up \nto see violet angels weave a tapestry \nof dreams with the four evening elements. \n  \nHere at Sunset Point\, the overlook \nis high enough that mist hovers \nin patches. Sunlight sweeps from above \nhighlighting the solid wall of mountains. \nThe bird dives again\, silver flash in his beak. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nDHARMA \n  \nSix months after I turned seventy I moved into an ashram where I would reside for the next 9 1⁄2 years (2012-2021) of my life. I’d been assisting in the care of my mother for two years\, and when she passed on\, one week after her 96th birthday\, I was in a state of ambivalence as to why I had no feeling of grief\, or even the slightest indication of sadness. How could this be? I was her only son\, and had dutifully been there for Her in these past years– cooking for her\, reading to her\, rubbing her swollen legs\, heavy with edema; escorting her on shopping trips and pleasant drives through the golden wheat fields of her childhood in North Central Oregon. Was I experiencing a kind of release from a period of time that had kept me so preoccupied that my own needs for self-examination and intellectual stimulation were suffocating? \n  \nI had spent two years in England (1983-85) studying the metaphysical philosophy of Rudolf Steiner\, but had not yet arrived at that internal place of a disciplined practice in study and meditation—of simplifying the material circumstances of my daily life; of coming to grasp the ego-transcendent state of the Eternal Self. And so when I was offered a room in the Portland ashram of the Sarada Ramakrishna Vivekananda order at the behest of the guru\, Robert Kindler\, I decided that a quiet and spiritually dedicated environment might inspire and deepen self-reflection. I might add that I had had the benefit of seven years of coming to know and respect the depth of the guru’s knowledge of the sacred texts of ancient India—the Upanishads\, Bhagavad Gita\, and the Puranas\, as well as the Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna (most recent avatar of West Bengal (b. 1836-’86)—through frequent classes and retreats. And I was further inspired by his remarkable facility in speaking the ancient Sanskrit slokas (passages from scripture)\, as well as his gift of musicianship\, having been a professional orchestral cellist with abilities to compose and perform hymns of praise offered to the deities of the Hindu spiritual tradition. \n  \nI took a small 12’ x 12’ room\, and began an exploration of ashram regimen—sharing a simple and contemplative daily schedule of 6am/10pm meditation\, vegetarian diet\, weekly classes of scriptural study\, and shared maintenance and cooking chores amongst the four of us—two men and two women—co-habitants upon the dharmic path. The intent was to “still” the restless mind to enable a depth of self-perception whereby the ephemerality/impermanence of day-to-day “reality” (regarded as Maya—the veil covering the eternal truths of aparanama (free of change) and ajativada (birthless/deathless))\, could be grasped\, and the elevated state of consciousness attained by the sages\, seers\, siddhis\, yogis and saviors could be glimpsed. \n  \nMy 9 1⁄2 years\, grounded in a consistent daily meditation practice\, and an inquisitive research into the philosophical richness of the sacred texts of India\, as well as the offering of my service/work in maintaining the grounds and shrines\, and serving as “the Abbot of the Ashram\, has deepened my self- perception and brought me to a place of self-trust and contentment at a depth that I have never before experienced. And I am inspired to proffer this brief koan-like offering from my experiential Realizations (aparokshanubhuti) \n  \nTHE YOGI SITS IN THE CAVE OF THE HEART\, \nONE EYE OPEN                                                                           \n  \n—Sam A. Muller \n* \n  \nGod Praying \n  \nSometimes we are discouraged from praying\, \nwe lose faith in the possibility of prayer\, \neverything seems blocked. \nWe have no trust in words\, \nin ourselves\, \nwe feel exiled\, distant. \nThere is no one to awaken compassion for us. \nFrom within our despair \nwe can reveal a new opening\, \na surprising one\, \nand ask God to pray for us\, \nto give words to our inner scream\, \nto have compassion on us in our exile. \n  \n—Rabbi Singer \n  \nThis idea melts my mind. I thought it was to God I’ve been praying\, and now Rabbi Singer (and others) suggest I now ask God to pray for me—to whom\, though? To ask the Self-Existent One to peer into my deepest recesses\, where I’m oft too scared to look\, and express\, for me\, my deepest heart’s desires. It seems both ludicrous and sensible all at the same time. Can I just sit here with my self—all inclusive—and allow those hidden away hopes\, dreams\, feelings\, memories\, etc.\, to just percolate up for Divine consideration or attention. Truth is\, God should already “know” these things—all knowing and all—which means I need only sit with and accept these pesky demons (self-made?) as part of my experience. \n  \n—Michel Deforge\, February 4\, 2023 \n* \n  \nAlex Tretbar sent this poem by Jessica Jacobs: \n  \nGodwrestling \n  \nThe river has tasted the salt of your skin\, has lapped\nat your calves with its current. The river has swallowed \n  \nthe press of your steps. There is no record of your crossing.\nThe river is between you and everything you call your life. \n  \nSo you step into a stranger’s arms. Your shoulder fits\ntheirs like a bone in its socket. Your jaw notches theirs. \n  \nAll around you\, a profusion of oleanders beams\nback the moonlight\, offering a carpet of fallen petals. \n  \nIn your arms\, all the promises you’ve yet to keep\, all\nyou’ve done that shames you. But what is wrestling \n  \nif not an embrace? It’s too dark to know\nyou have the same face and only like this\, cheek to cheek\, \n  \neach looking over the other’s shoulder\, can you see\nthe world whole. Close\, at first\, as a slow dance\, \n  \nyou spin and spin\, your tracks a tight coin; matched\,\nyou step out\, making a spear tip of your bodies; matched\, \n  \nyou step further\, levered like rafters\, needing the other\nto stay aloft—your tracks trace widening circles\, ringing \n  \nout through the fallen blossoms. Names are required\nonly when not alone. This stranger \n  \ndoes not give you a new name\, just dippers up\nthe true one you tender in your chest. The day is breaking \n  \nthe night’s hold. The far bank is calling.\nOn one side\, you. On the other\, your life. Join them.  \n  \n—Jessica Jacobs \n* \n  \nAny object\, intensely regarded\, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods.  \n  \n–from Ulysses by James Joyce\, p. 340 \n  \nHere’s what Joseph Campbell has to say about this passage from Ulysses: \n  \n“I 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—from Mythic Worlds\, Modern Words: On the Art of James Joyce by Joseph Campbell\, p. 130 \n  \nHere’s one of my small poems that seems à propos: \n  \na bowl of oatmeal \nand a cup of coffee \ndid you think heaven was up in the sky somewhere? \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nMore of my thoughts on LovingKindness meditation: \n  \nBefore beginning Loving Kindness meditation practice each Monday\, I center myself remembering my friend and teacher Bob Schaibly. His teaching mantra was\, “What the World Needs from Us is our Non-Anxious Presence.” Reciting and listening to the Loving Kindness phrases these past couple of years\, I have come to understand that this is what we are training ourselves to do. To find equanimity and to be able in the midst of changes—good or bad—to  find stability in equanimity. This doesn’t mean being passive or uncaring\, but to have courage\, to not let our emotions make us frantic\, to not react immediately with judgement. In this way we can stay present to whatever might arise. We can observe and check our fears and anger and deep sadness without causing harm to ourselves and others\, without blocking our feelings.  \n  \nCompassion in Sanskrit means being present—with yourself or with another. I have two stories that came to my mind about acts of kindness on a small scale that are examples of compassion in action. When I had a bookstore in downtown Portland\, one day two people I hardly knew\, came in and presented me with a rose. Just to say thank you for having the bookstore where they always felt happy to browse and meet up. I was stunned. They said they liked to go places that make them feel happy and take a flower or two. I also heard a story last week about a woman who wished she could do something for her sick uncle who lived far away. She sent him a bouquet of flowers. He called her and said that in his long life\, no one had ever sent him flowers and he was so thankful. \n  \n Thich Nhat Hanh says it takes mindfulness training with loving kindness to bring compassion. He writes: \n  \n“Loving kindness should be practiced every day. Suppose you have a transistor radio. To tune into the radio station you like\, you need a battery. In order to get linked to the power of loving kindness of bodhisattvas\, buddhas\, and other great beings\, you need to tune in to the “station” of loving kindness that is being sent from the ten directions. Then you only need to sit on the grass and practice breathing and enjoying.  \n  \nBut many of us are not capable of doing that because the feeling of loneliness\, of being cut off from the world\, is so severe we cannot reach out. We do not realize that if we are moved by the imminent death of an insect\, if we see an insect suffering and we do something to help\, already this energy of loving kindness is in us. If we take a small stick and help the insect out of the water\, we can also reach out to the cosmos. The energy of loving kindness in us becomes real\, and we derive a lot of joy from it.  \n  \nThe Fourth Precept of the Order of Interbeing tells us to be aware of suffering in the world\, not to close our eyes before suffering. Touching those who suffer is one way to generate the energy of compassion in us\, and compassion will bring joy and peace to ourselves and others. The more we generate the energy of loving kindness in ourselves\, the more we are able to receive the joy\, peace\, and love of the buddhas and bodhisattvas throughout the cosmos.”  \n  \nLast Sunday\, I heard a story about an acrobat flying from one trapeze bar to the next. It was a story about letting go of how things have been in the past in order to break free and into some new engagement. Even though we might not know what that will be. In Buddhism\, the term for this refreshing process is “renunciation.” Rather than giving up things it is about what we practice in LovingKindness: becoming aware of where we might feel an aversion—a fear\, a grudge\, anxiety\, resentment—by recognizing it\, then softening our hearts\, we can let these negative emotions have less power over us. Through that we find more equanimity and ability to act with compassion\, with ourselves and for others. With that  foremost in our minds\, we can become unstuck and as Bob encouraged us\, to participate fully in the midst of life’s difficulties with a non-anxious presence.    \n  \nin love and peace\,    \n  \n—Katie Radditz
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-3-15-23/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230406
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230504
DTSTAMP:20260426T051653
CREATED:20230406T203104Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230406T203535Z
UID:3778-1680739200-1683158399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  4/6/23
DESCRIPTION:The Rink \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \n \n  \nApril 6\, 2023 \n  \nI invited some friends to write something about their favorite films… \nWhen we read a great book\, we want all our friends to read it. When we watch a great movie\, we want all our friends to see it.  \nFor the next issue of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding\, which comes out on April 6th\, write something about movies\, films\, or tv shows that you love. \n* \n  \nPrabu’s film “In the Beginning” reminded me of the old\, scratchy\, haunting film “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge\,” based on a civil war story by Ambrose Bierce. Much darker than what Prabu offered us\, but a similar visual narrative of a man trying to negotiate a mysterious world. \nhttps://vimeo.com/15147706 \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nAt the top of my list is “Ted Lasso.” The improbable premise of this tv show is that the central character is nice. He’s generous to everyone. He has a corny sense of humor. He’s a good man. Whoever thought you could make stories about someone like that? The film that first came to mind is “Wings of Desire” by Wim Wenders. It’s about angels\, who are invisible to most people\, who help us to reduce stress and think positive thoughts by their presence. They are immortal\, but they are missing out on many human pleasures\, like the smell of coffee. Nancy and I love the films of Wes Anderson. Our favorite is “Moonrise Kingdom.” Of Coen brothers’ films\, it’s a toss-up for me between “The Big Lebowski” and “Hail\, Caesar!” I love the Australian film “Bliss” (1985)\, based on the novel by Peter Carey. Another classic is Terry Gilliam’s hilarious dystopian vision “Brazil” (also 1985!). I love the early silent films of Georges Méliès. “The Kingdom of the Fairies” (1903) is especially good. For physical comedy\, Charlie Chaplin’s “The Rink” remains unsurpassed. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nA favorite film of mine is\, ‘The count of Monte Cristo’. \nIt embodies the tireless effort for justice\, and a will to not give in to the deeds of those that seek ones demise. \nThe character\, Edmond Dontez (later\, the Count) is someone I could relate to while in captivity (prison). He spent 16 years seeking a way out\, to avenge the wrongdoings of his peers.  \nHe eventually did\, and along the way\, learned many other lessons about life and forgiveness. \nEssentially for me\, the story/film is an inspiration to never give up or give in. And to never forget where I came from\, for it is fuel for my fire.  \n  \n—Brandon Gillespie \n\n\n\n  \nThanks for the invitation Johnny.  A few ideas:   \n     \nAs for happiness\, along with some heartbreak and comic flair\, it’s hard to beat the book This Is Happiness by the Irish writer Niall Williams.  I felt like I was living in a village in county Kerry the whole time I was reading the book. In the end I felt like I had made new friends\, been wrapped in a prayer blanket\, fed a good meal and sent home along a winding green path with a fiddle tune and a song. It made me hopeful\, appreciative and aware of the happiness lurking in my own backyard.  Superb writing!  \n     \nAs for film\, “The Mission” (Robert Dinero) comes to mind not because of peace or happiness but because of understanding and the meaning of redemption and forgiveness.  The music is sublime and the scenery stunningly beautiful.  A sad reminder as well of what  artistic and cultural creations might have been had peace\, love\, understanding and imagination prevailed over avarice and greed.   \n      \nOpening day of baseball season always makes me happy.  Here’s a poem I wrote about it.  Love and Play Ball!!! Will   \n  \nWhy Baseball Matters \n  \nBecause in a world obsessed with time\, baseball is a past-time. \nBecause any game could theoretically last into eternity. \nBecause baseball is played on a diamond.  \nBecause in a world obsessed by success even the best hitters fail two-thirds of the time. \nBecause\, as George Carlin reminded us\, football is about “ground and aerial attacks”\, and “marching down the field” while baseball is about “staying safe and coming home.” \nBecause what other game has characters named “Goose\, the Big Hurt\, the Left Hand of God\, the Splendid Splinter\, The Say Hey Kid\, the Sultan of Swat\, Catfish\, Hammerin’ Hank\, Cool Papa\, the Bird\, Big Papi\, The Man of Steal\, Satchel\, the Big Unit and the Iron Horse?” \nBecause the crowd takes a stretch and sings together at the ballpark. \nBecause despite all efforts to improve the game\, baseball remains blessedly slow\, wonderfully conversational\, deceptively complex and enjoyably simple. \nBecause outside of going to the park\, baseball is best experienced on a radio broadcast where gifted storytellers usher us daily into a theatre of imagination.  \nBecause pitchers deliberately baffle\, confuse and confound with “curves\, sliders\, splitters\, sinkers\, screwballs\, knuckleballs\, fastballs and change-ups.”   \nBecause almost every day from April through October millions of boys and girls\, women and men play a game made in America before the Civil War and now beloved from Japan and Korea to Cuba\, Australia\, Venezuela and beyond. \nBecause as Leo Durocher said: “Baseball is like church. Many attend\, few understand.”  Yet\, I would add: all can be uplifted and enjoy. \nBecause as a Boston fan once said: “Baseball is not about life and death. But\, the Red Sox are!”  \nBecause these days it just feels good to shout: “Play ball!”  \n      \n—Will Hornyak  \n* \n  \nFor me\, THE RULES OF THE GAME\, by Jean Renoir\, is a great humanist document that happens to be a movie rather than a novel or play….It is a luminous farce that depicts a weekend at a country estate. The classes\, represented on the one hand by the owner and his guests\, and on the other by members of the staff\, especially a maid and a gamekeeper\, are assiduously separated: one serves\, the other receives. But at the same time\, they all meet and merge as equals in games of love and deception. Renoir misses nothing\, and forgives everything. \nA more recent movie that moves me is THE RIDER\, by Chloe Zhao\, an almost-documentary that tells the story of some Pine Ridge “Indian cowboys”\, who make brief and destructive livings as rodeo riders. The characters play themselves. I’ve watched this three times\, and will watch it a fourth. \nOh\, and also about RULES OF THE GAME; it’s funny as hell. \n  \n—Ken Margolis \n* \nWhat is it about peace that its story is not enduring? \n  \nWings of Desire\, a 1987 film directed by Wim Wenders \n  \nThe aerial shots of Berlin so long before drones. The use of space both physically and visually. The plants in the library. The stand-up desks in the library. The angels in the library. The soft leather seats in the sports car in the showroom where the angels meet to compare notes. The desire for that car from the people looking in. The miracle of being able to watch this movie again in the kitchen 36 years later. The world of humans is in color. A friend and student expressing aversion to angels when I read a poem to a recent class that had a passing reference to them. The discussion that followed over days and walks about this dislike of angels she didn’t even know she had. The drawing on the wall at the circus behind the elephant. The robe on backwards to protect Marion’s chicken feather wings. Nick Cave on the portable phonograph. Looking for the right hat. The trapeze artist in a tuxedo cat suit with a long white tail. But the story of the grass\, the sun\, the leaping\, and the shouting that is still going on as well. Sometimes beauty is the only thing that matters. Chest armor falling from the sky. The revelation and joy in color in a gray gray city. The mural of a ruined building on an intact one. The pile of sawdust the circus left behind. No one saw the carney go. The shared wine glass filled almost to the brim.    \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nThis is a fun idea\, Johnny.   \nI particularly like movies based on books. Even if I loved the book\, I like watching how it was made into film. From the many Jane Austen’s to “Bridget Jone’s Diary\,” in which Salmon Rushdie plays himself in a tiny part. The renditions of “A Room with a View” to  “Little Dorrit.”  \nMy favorite film\, that stands up over 50 years\, is “Heaven Knows\, Mr. Allison\,” directed by John Huston. Robert Mitchum and Deborah Kerr\, a marine and a nun\, are stranded on a Japanese-invaded island during WWII. \nBill likes old and new foreign films—Iranian\, Japanese\, French\, Irish\, Indian\, the farther flung the better. Our favorite series ever is “Heimat”–that begins at the end of WWI with a family living above their cow in a small village\, up through that family’s  youngest living amongst his creative fellow artists in the city in the 50’s. Rotten tomato reviewer writes about it: “Edgar Reitz’s Heimat is not just a brilliant film about Germany. It is a brilliant film about our time\, anywhere—perhaps about any time anywhere. \nI’m excited to see everyone’s reviews! \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nI want movies to move me.  \nTwo films\, totally opposite from one another on the surface\, would be my faves of all time. The Crying Game and The Lives of Others are both about love\, courage and compassion. \nMy short take on The Crying Game is that Love Conquers all; love remains love\, in spite of its being turned on its head in a very unexpected way.  \nThe Lives of Others\, a German film\, takes place in 1984\, 5 years before the fall of the Berlin Wall. The Stasi\, the German version of the Nazi SS\, is in operation\, and Captain Gerd Wiesler is assigned the job of spying on a couple suspected of national dissident activity. The Captain is dry\, hardened\, methodical and dispassionate in his work (as he has been his whole life). However\, as time goes on\, he begins to care for his subjects (to his own puzzlement and fear). \nUltimately\, love and compassion conquer\, and he does the right thing\, makes the difficult\, moral choice\, to his own great peril. I love this.  \nOthers have different viewpoints of both these movies; this is what makes them both compelling\, and grand. \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nA Smile in Abjection \nnotes on the opening credits of Withnail and I \n  \nMy favorite frame in cinema is this one: Paul McGann as Marwood\, the “I” in Withnail and I\, just one minute into the film. We have drawn closer and closer to him as he smokes a cigarette that clearly brings no pleasure\, his eyes shifting and shifting and finding no solace. And as the saxophone of King Curtis carries us gently through a live cut of “A Whiter Shade of Pale\,” Marwood appears to reach some far limit within himself\, and his torment suddenly eases\, or it pauses to breathe\, or Marwood simply parts it like a blackout curtain. He lifts his eyes\, and we perceive a smile that is almost not even there. Perhaps we have just imagined it. Perhaps Marwood himself has imagined it. \n  \n \n  \nCan you see it? I can. It is the mark of a wild\, mad hope. I am certain it is there\, the smile\, because I have been there\, and I have smiled it. It is an abject smile\, a desolate smile\, a smile with sweat on its forehead. Undramatically\, I tell you that it is no less than the smile you face death with. I have been hunted by forces within me and without\, cornered and shivering in a sweater\, smoking far beyond any desire to continue smoking. And yet I would also\, in those midnights\, hallucinate some star\, some aberration of logic in which I could discern a reason to hope. Marwood is looking upon that star\, smiling upon it\, and I\, too\, have seen it. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nAndrei Rublev: \nAndrei Rublev is a biographical film about a medieval Russian iconic painter.  In the movie you can hardly see Rublev touching the brush. It is a movie about the formation of Rublev as an artist\, especially an artist living under an oppressive regime. It effectively shows that an artist is society’s conscience.  \n  \nTree of Life: \nTerrance Malicks poetic masterpiece that attempts to capture all of existence through the lens of a boy growing up in the American midlands.  As per the great film critic Roger Ebert “the only other film with this boldness of vision is Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey\, and it lacked Malick’s fierce evocation of human feeling.” \n  \n—Prabu Muruganantham \n* \n  \nDear Reader \nFor next month (May 4th)\, send me something about books that changed the way you see\, experience\, or understand the world. \n  \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n—Johnny \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-2/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230409T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230409T170000
DTSTAMP:20260426T051653
CREATED:20230330T231512Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230413T150430Z
UID:3761-1681052400-1681059600@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  4/9/23
DESCRIPTION:Beloved Bibliophiles! \n\n\n  \nFor Sunday\, April 9th\, at 3 p.m. (PDT) our theme is: \n  \n“sweet spring is your  \ntime is my time is our  \ntime for springtime is lovetime  \nand viva sweet love” \n\n\n\n\n  \nBring poems to read or recite about Spring! \n  \nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nI hope to see you there! \n  \npeace & love  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-4-9-23/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230415
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230515
DTSTAMP:20260426T051653
CREATED:20230416T194601Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250717T160933Z
UID:3800-1681516800-1684108799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  4/15/23
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nApril 15\, 2023 \n  \nDear Mindful Meditators \n  \nOur Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue began on September 15\, 2020. Recipients include people inside and outside prison walls. It is currently mailed to 10 men in prison and emailed to about 60 people who aren’t—including 9 men who were in prison in September of 2020 who are now out of prison! Hallelujah! \n  \nWe are going to have our first get-together on Saturday\, May 13th\, from 2 to 4 p.m.\, at Taborspace in Portland: 5441 SE Belmont. \n  \nThis will be an opportunity for people to get to know each other\, and to have a dialogue about our life journey—what it means\, what we love\, what we do to nurture peace\, happiness\, goodness and understanding in our own life and in the lives of others. \n  \nI hope you can come! Bring a friend\, if you like. \n  \nMy friend Rocky Hutchinson\, who is a member of our meditation & mindfulness community\, called me the other day\, and was excited to tell me about an author he had just discovered—Kahlil Gibran! Back in the day\, The Prophet was an essential book in every hippie’s library. Rocky’s enthusiasm inspired me to re-read it (after 50 years). This quote from The Prophet relates to our upcoming gathering: \n  \nYour friend is your needs answered. \nHe is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving…. \nAnd let your best be for your friend. \nIf he must know the ebb of your tide\, let him know its flood also. \nFor what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill? \nSeek him always with hours to live. \nFor it is his to fill your need\, but not your emptiness. \nAnd in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughing\, and sharing of pleasures. \nFor in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed. \n  \n—Kahlil Gibran \n  \npeace & love\, y’all \nJohnny \n* \n  \n            Dreaming in Detail \n  \nThe casting director for my dreaming \nI can understand—bringing in my parents \nfrom gone\, grown children as infants again\, \nand a parade of strangers\, each with a bit part \nfraught with obscure purpose. The location scout  \nfound familiar places\, made them mythic\, then \nadded an abundance of tunnels\, caves\, cities  \nin ruin\, and a foggy coast. My costume director \nsurrenders to seasonal change—blues in spring \nyielding to summer gray\, and autumn black. But  \nwhy is the director of photography so obsessed  \nwith effects of light both atmospheric and exact?  \nIn one scene we see fine hairs on my father’s arm  \nglitter in low sun\, then a heap of medieval coins\, \nthen that lost button shining on a stone. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nA Fish Describes Water \n  \nThere are prayers best said \nonly at night\, in depths\, water steps \nrubies in the mouth. \n  \nWind ripples across moon grass \nlonging to be released by washed \nstones. The rowboat \n  \nis empty. What remains \nis a song\, a solitary gold-winged \nwarbler\, the pattern of rain. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nWhat do you do to nurture  peace\, love and happiness in your life? \n  \nRecently I had a chance to sit in on a phone call with Johnny and Rocky Hutchinson. Rocky is one of our inmates in the dialogue group\, and he is one of the dearest human beings I’ve ever known. He has been in prison for a long time\, and has had quite a—well—rocky experience. \n  \nI asked him how he was doing\, and what he was doing\, and he told me he had just finished the Master Gardener program\, and he was also training dogs for use with people with disabilities. He loves it\, both the gardening and the dogs.  \n  \nI said\, “Rocky\, you couldn’t have picked two more valuable activities for the soul than gardens and dogs!” And I realized that that is just how I feel: Gardens and dogs fill my heart and soul like nothing else. \n  \nYou all might have heard that digging in dirt\, the smell of dirt\, of the soil\, stimulates endorphins in the brain\, the happiness endorphins. True!  Of course\, I don’t head to the garden thinking\, uh oh\, I think I need some of them endorphins about now! No\, it’s just an instinct\, a drive\, that takes me there. And planting carrots\, chard\, beans; digging watery moats around the tomato plants (the smell of those tomato leaves!); cutting bouquets of coral colored peonies and lavender irises (the smell of irises!); picking green beans with glints of sunlight beaming through the vines—all of this settles in me and brings focus\, joy\, and  quiet peace to my soul. Gardens\, yes!!! \n  \nAnd dogs! Lolo! My love! Some friends took care of Lolo while we were gone and when I asked how she’d been\, they said\, “She had us with one look into her soulful eyes.” So true. She looks into your heart and understands when you’re sad\, she rejoices when you’re happy\, and every emotion is acknowledged with a loving and energetic lick on the face. Ick! you might say. Not at all—it’s the lick of love. Don’t you remember that Dusty Springfield song\, “The Lick of Love..(is in your eyes…?”)  Oh wait—maybe it was “The Look of Love.” Whatever.  \n  \nAnyway\, she’s a soft and fuzzy and uncharacteristically sweet-smelling dog! What more can you ask for? \n  \nSO: gardens and dogs. Rocky\, you’re so right. But I must add that it’s you\, Rocky\, you and all the other men in our dialogue and theater group who bring peace\, love and sheer happiness into my life\, and I am forever grateful. \n  \nAddendum: But how could I have forgotten hiking??? Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams\, my two sentinels. How could I have omitted family\, and dear friends? Music!!!  Riding my bike! Art! Books and reading!!!  \n  \nWhat a topic! \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nTo nurture peace\, love and happiness I simply do nothing.   \n  \nEach morning I take my coffee out on the porch and watch the daybreak.  I say my little peace prayer.  Then I do Nothing.  I don’t analyze or plan or meditate or cogitate.  I find myself surrounded by the sky.  Maybe the moon is out\, or the sun comes up.  It’s a moment of peace and harmony\, and I did nothing to get here.  I merely stopped distracting myself.   \n  \nI can’t spend the whole day sitting here.  There’s still clutter in my life or my mind or my house that needs some tending to.  But when the morning starts out this peacefully the rest of the day usually follows suit.  Our natural state is peace and love\, unless we sully it up.  How can this not nurture some happiness?   \n  \nThanks\, and love\,   \n  \n—Bill Faricy \n* \n  \nIn the chalice of the heart\, \n Lies love’s sweet essence: \nBorn of the seed of truth; \n Watered by the tears of devotion; \nWarmed by the sun of faith\, \n Through the fruit of days\, \nOn the vine of humankind– \n  One and another\, \nAll One Together… \n  \n—sam muller 14 April ’23 \n* \n  \nMichel is currenlty using a book by Pema Chödrön as the inspiration for his meditation journal. (I’m not sure which one\, but it appears to be inspired by Chögyam Trungpa’s Training the Mind.) \n  \nMarch 9\, 2023  #14  Seeing Confusion as the Four Kayas is Unsurpassable Shunyata Protection \n  \nThrough meditation practice you begin to realize: \n\nThoughts just pop up out of nowhere—dharmakaya\nThoughts are never ceasing—sambhogakaya\nThey appear but are not solid—sambhogakaya\nAll together: no birth\, no cessation\, no dwelling—svabhavikakaya\n\nThis understanding gives unsurpassable protection of \nrealizing called shunyata—“complete openness.” \nNothing solid to react to. \nYou’ve made much ado about nothing! \n  \nI can relate to this one. The fancy names mean little\, but the effort of meditation practice for complete openness is valuable—learning to not react to mental formations. Thoughts of mind are like mists or fog; the warm light of reality will dissipate all obstacles to reveal reality as it is. I’ve driven in misty\, snowy\, fog late at night and my vision played tricks on me\, so I had to drive extra cautiously. During a clear day\, the same road was easy to see and navigate. Mind plays the same tricks on me with reality; I need to slow down and pay careful attention—nothing changed except perception. Or did it? Surprises appear faster through foggy delusions. I can’t see them coming. Definitely: foggy\, misty\, delusions require proceeding cautiously until clearer. \n  \nMarch 13\, 2023  #17  Practice the Four Strengths\, the Condensed Heart Instrucions \n  \n\nStrong determination to train in opening heart and mind\nFamiliarization with practices helping you do this\nPositive seed within\, experienced as yearning to practice and wake up\nReproach\, tricky for Western students\, realizing ego-clinging causes suffering\, delight in self-reflection\, honesty\, seeing where you get stuck\nAspiration to help alleviate suffering in this world\, expressing that intention to yourself\n\n  \nI value each of these principles and judge they can be of benefit to any religious practice. I find\, and imagine it is similar for many\, that working with ego issues can be the most challenging of all\, since our culture is all about cultivating a powerful ego. My experience reveals Western egoism is the central source of all our sufferings. It’s from here that we develop attractions (grasping) and aversions (pushing away)\, and this ego makes us blind to our faults and challenges which\, once corrected\, would release—at least diminish—suffering. Yet\, we focus on and build up ego\, wondering at our suffering. The “escape” is to practice breathing. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-4-15-23/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230423T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230423T170000
DTSTAMP:20260426T051653
CREATED:20230413T150146Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230503T210126Z
UID:3792-1682262000-1682269200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Shakespeare Birthday Extravaganza!!!  4/23/23
DESCRIPTION:I know a bank where the wild thyme blows\,\nWhere oxlips and the nodding violet grows\,\nQuite over-canopied with luscious woodbine\,\nWith sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:\nThere sleeps Titania sometime of the night\,\nLull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;\nAnd there the snake throws her enamell’d skin\,\nWeed wide enough to wrap a fairy in: \n\n \n\nBeloved Bibliophiles!\n \nThis year is the 400th Anniversary of the “First Folio” of Mr. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARES COMEDIES\, HISTORIES\, & TRAGEDIES. Shakespeare’s Birthday\, April 23rd\, falls on the day we do our next Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering–at 3 p.m. (PDT). To celebrate\, an all-star lineup of actors is going to read scenes and speeches from Shakespeare’s plays.\n\n\n \n\n\n\nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \n  \n\n\n\n\n\nDON’T MISS THIS!!! \n\n\n \n\n\n\npeace\, love & poetry  \n\n\n \n\n\nJohnny\n\n  \n\nBottom.  There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe that will never please. First\, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself\, which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that?\n \nSnout.  By’r lakin\, a parlous fear.\n \nStarveling.  I believe we must leave the killing out\, when all is done.\n \nBottom.  Not a whit. I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue\, and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords\, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed. And for the more better assurance\, tell them that I\, Pyramus\, am not Pyramus\, but Bottom the weaver. This will put them out of fear.\n\n\n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-shakespeare-birthday-extravaganza-4-23-23/
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