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DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20231005
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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  9/7/23
DESCRIPTION:One Happy Man (Rocky Hutchinson) with Eight Puppies (two are black) \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nSeptember 7\, 2023 \n  \nIf you help one person\, you help humanity. \n—Ai Weiwei \n  \nKen Margolis sent this poem by Ai Qing\, who is the father of the artist Ai Weiwei: \n  \nYARKHOTO \nIt’s almost as if a caravan is wending its way through town \nA clamor of voices mingling with the tinkle of camel bells \nThe markets bustling as before \nAn incessant flow of carts and horses \nBut no—the splendid palace \nHas lapsed into ruin \nOf a thousand years of joys and sorrows \nNot a trace can be found \nYou who are living\, live the best life you can \nDon’t count on the earth to preserve memory \n  \n—Ai Qing  (1980) \n* \n  \nA letter from Abe Green: \n  \nIt’s early morning \n          I’m sitting in my backyard acquainting myself with the \nrichness of this new day \n          The sun bright and warm \n          The air intoxicatingly fresh           [small feather taped to the page] \n          I gulp it with delight \nA hundred thoughts clamor for my attention but I deny all in \nanticipation of the song birds arrival at my feeder \n          I am patient \nSuddenly a single wren swoops in alighting on the small \ntable next to my chair \n          Next to my arm \n          We both seem surprised and take cautious appraisal of  \none another \n          She inspecting this mysterious land-bound creature \n          I observing her intricate feathering \n          Her tiny yet powerful legs and feet \n          And most of all her dark probing eyes \n  \nGazing into those ebon portals I was confronted with the \nfull creative power of life \n          Did she see the same in mine? \n          Did she see the earth song in my heart? \n  \nHow beautiful those few heartbeats were for me and \n          How beautiful was her perfection \n  \nThen with three resonant chirps as if clarifying an essential \ntruth with this benign human \n          She took wing to be about further business \n  \n          How astonishing is creation in its continual \n          bursting forth with life \n  \n          And how wonderful is the human experience to be \n  \n                    Astonished! \n  \n—Abe Green \n* \n  \nDear Johnny \n  \nHey there\, my friend. It’s been quite some time now since I’ve written you a letter. But you know that I’ve just been really busy. My skills that I’ve been obtaining the last few years have been shining through the last few weeks in my work. It’s an amazing thing to see all you can accomplish when you really apply your heart\, mind & soul into life. The truth is\, is that for me the difficulties are worth the accomplishments. \n  \nMy lesson with the dog today went surprisingly well. The things I’m doing now are so hard to do\, but my trainer is very good at this & is helping me to be better too. As I performed all the “get help” cues with the dog\, I got to do them by the flowers I planted this Spring. As I gave direction to the dog with cues\, my eyes took in the beauty of the gladioluses\, brown eyed daisies\, foxgloves & a rose bush. It was an enchanted few seconds\, sacred in the pause of the mind. My hope is that my life will be this way once I’m out of here. I’m happy & wish to stay so. \n  \nWe got to take pictures with the puppies & you’ll be getting some soon. As luck would have it\, my favorite one\, “Unique\,” a 9 lb female black lab has moved into my cell “for a short stay.” She is a lot of work!! She is 41 days old & knows her name\, comes\, sits & potties on the pad. She will be doing rides & hills by 60 days old. They are an amazing litter…. \n  \nI wanted to let you and Nancy know about a movie I caught a few days ago. It’s called “Maudie”! It’s about a Canadian folk artist that had arthritis badly. Very good movie…very humble life. When I see such things…it gives me a sense of calmness\, knowing that the best lives are full of difficulties & that makes the joy we find in them all the sweeter for us\, and maybe for those we touch. \n  \nWell\, you can use this whole letter in the Open Road newsletter if you’d like. It’s all good & beautiful. I love you & miss you & hope to hear from you soon. \n  \nBeautiful things on the Golden path are like finding the best rocks in the river on a Summer’s day. The best things we all have in life are the joys we give & get & the love we let shine from our hearts that grow all the good things. It feels like I’ve got raven wings to fly on\, shiny\, strong and true\, for carrying all the love I have to all the ones I love so true. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson  (8/13/2023) \n* \n  \nPrairie Radio \n  \nWay out on open hills we get \nno reception—no news or message \ngets through\, so we listen to birds \nexplain existence\, and by scent of dust \nand flowers apprehend our chance. \n  \nBack home in cities\, signals bombard \nour tender minds with wars and other \ntroubles\, air around us thick with \nwarnings and sorrows\, light around us \nthick with poisons for heart and mind. \n  \nBut anywhere\, if you turn your head\, \nwind delivers light across prairie hills \nfrom far to inform your ancient soul. \n  \n—from Beauty So Intense You Shield Your Eyes by Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nScott Teitsworth recently read this inspiring passage from Brian Doyle’s essay “The Final Frontier” to some of his friends: \n  \n….I began\, slowly and dimly\, to realize that humble was the only finally truly honest way to be in this life. Anything else is ultimately cocky\, which is either foolish or a deliberate disguise you refuse to remove\, for complicated reasons perhaps not known even to you. \n  \nOf course you do your absolute best to find and hone and wield your divine gifts against the dark. You do your best to reach out tenderly to touch and elevate as many people as you can reach. You bring your naked love and defiant courage and salty grace to bear as much as you can\, with all the attentiveness and humor you can muster. This life is after all a miracle and we ought to pay fierce attention every moment\, as much as possible. \n  \nBut you cannot control anything. You cannot order or command everything. You cannot fix and repair everything. You cannot protect your children from pain and loss and tragedy and illness. You cannot be sure that you will always be married\, let alone happily married. You cannot be sure you will always be employed\, or healthy\, or relatively sane. \n  \nAll you can do is face the world with quiet grace and hope you make a sliver of difference. Humility does not mean self-abnegation\, lassitude\, detachment; it’s a more calm recognition that you must trust in that which does not make sense\, that which is unreasonable\, illogical\, silly\, ridiculous\, crazy by the measure of most of our culture. You must trust that you being the best possible you matters somehow. That trying to be an hones and tender parent will echo for centuries through your tribe. That doing your chosen work with creativity and diligence will shiver people far beyond your ken. That being an attentive and generous friend and citizen will prevent a thread or two of the social fabric from unraveling. And you must do all of this with the certain knowledge that you will never get proper credit for it\, and in fact the vast majority of things you do right will go utterly unremarked. Humility\, the final frontier\, as my brother Kevin used to say. When we are young we build a self\, a persona\, a story in which to reside\, or several selves in succession\, or several at once\, sometimes; when we are older we take on other roles and personas\, other masks and duties; and you and I both know men and women who become trapped in the selves they worked so hard to build\, so desperately imprisoned that sometimes they smash their lives simply to escape who they no longer wish to be; but finally\, I think\, if we are lucky\, if we read the book of pain and loss with humility\, we realize that we are all broken and small and brief\, that none among us is ultimately more valuable or rich or famous or beautiful than another; and then\, perhaps\, we begin to understand something deep and true about humility. \n  \nThis is what I know: that the small is huge\, that the tiny is vast\, that pain is part and parcel of the gift of joy\, and that this is love\, and then there is everything else. You either walk toward love or away from it with every breath you draw. Humility is the road to love. Humility\, maybe\, is love. That could be. I wouldn’t know; I’m a muddle and a conundrum shuffling slowly along the road\, gaping in wonder\, trying to just see and say what is\, trying to leave shreds and shards of ego along the road like wisps of litter and chaff. \n  \n—One Long River of Song by Brian Doyle\, pp. 58-59
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-9-7-23/
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DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20231015
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SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  9/15/23
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nSeptember 15\, 2023 \n  \nIf the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is\, infinite. \nFor man has closed himself up\, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern. \n—William Blake\, from THE MARRIAGE of HEAVEN and HELL\n* \n  \n#103  A Garden of Poems \n  \nOne day in New York City\, I met a Buddhist scholar and I told her about my practice of mindfulness in the vegetable garden. I enjoy growing lettuce\, tomatoes\, and other vegetables\, and I like to spend time gardening every day. \nShe said\, “You shouldn’t spend your time growing vegetables. You should spend more time writing poems. Your poems are so beautiful. Everyone can grow lettuce\, but not everyone can write poems like you do.” \nI told her\, “If I don’t grow lettuce\, I can’t write poems.” \n  \n—from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nThis one really made me laugh. For me\, it’s playing music\, or drawing\, or writing. If I don’t do these things it is difficult for me to think correctly in my day-to-day life. Everything is out of tune & I don’t feel right. One of the counselors here asked me about my drawings. I told her that I did not have time to draw anymore. She said\, “NO! You must find the time to draw & express yourself\, so you feel right!” \n  \nSo I found the time & she was right. I can in fact think better now. My tasks run smoother and I just feel better. So I do get what Thich Nhat Hanh is saying here. We must do the things that we are passionate about & we must do the things that feed our being so we’re capable of doing all of the things we need & want to do. \n  \nLove you all so much. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \n#10    “Lotus in the Mud”       \n  \n“The goodness of suffering is something real. Without suffering\, there cannot be happiness. Without mud there cannot be any lotus flowers. So if you know how to suffer\, suffering is okay. And the moment you have that attitude\, you don’t suffer much anymore. And out of suffering\, a lotus flower of happiness can open.” \n—from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nBefore I ever read this\, I believed this. Going back to my first marriage of thirteen years in an abusive\, alcoholic relationship\, I suffered in such a way that my mind and body simply shut down. I stopped talking\, I stopped eating\, I stopped feeling. It was the only way I could keep living—by not living. I suffered internally and externally\, not understanding either condition.  \n  \nIt was only when I escaped the marriage that I was released from suffering and moved—no\, vaulted\, catapulted\, jetted!—into joy\, into happiness. Into gratitude. I had plenty of scars\, physical and emotional\, but I came to understand and rejoice in what I had lived through. I rejoiced in the suffering\, because I was now living life. Getting unstuck from the mud of suffering is how I came to be grateful for the suffering. So to happiness\, I would add gratitude as an ingredient that blossoms from the mud.  \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \n                         Holy Land \n  \nWhere the angel gave black stone to the prophet\, \nwhere the old man woke under a tree\, where \na king killed a worthy friend\, first there is silence\,  \nthen singing\, chanting\, sweet smoke\, and visions. \n  \nWhere the bones of a frail saint lie\, where a newborn \nslept in straw\, where a father did not slay his son— \npilgrims have passed by places without stories  \nby the thousands to be here weeping and praying. \n  \nIt’s all in how you see it\, how you tell it.  \nOn this rocky hill\, a peasant met a virgin girl. \nOn that one\, he did not. Here a cathedral\,  \nthere only the wind twitching dry grass.  \n  \nUnder the sky in a burning world\, how can  \nwe choose what is holy and what is not? \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nI have already seen red leaves on a tree! Autumn is lulling in even during this hot summer day. I think of this poem\, as the beauty and sorrows in the world unfold together. And it helps me feel the expansive wonder of it all.   \n  \nThree Times my Life has Opened \n  \nThree times my life has opened.\nOnce\, into darkness and rain.\nOnce\, into what the body carries at all times within it and\nstarts to remember each time it enters the act of love.\nOnce\, to the fire that holds all.\nThese three were not different.\nYou will recognize what I am saying or you will not.\nBut outside my window all day a maple has stepped\nfrom her leaves like a woman in love with winter\, dropping\nthe colored silks.\nNeither are we different in what we know.\nThere is a door. It opens. Then it is closed. But a slip of\nlight stays\, like a scrap of unreadable paper left on the floor\,\nor the one red leaf the snow releases in March. \n  \n—Jane Hirshfield\, from The Lives of the Heart: Poems \n  \n—Love and Peace\,  Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nOde to things (Oda a las cosas) \n  \nI have a crazy\, \ncrazy love of things. \nI like pliers\, \nand scissors. \nI love \ncups\, \nrings\, \nand bowls— \nnot to speak\, of course\, \nof hats. \nI love \nall things\, \nnot just \nthe grandest\, \nalso \nthe \ninfinite- \nly \nsmall— \nthimbles\, \nspurs\, \nplates\, \nand flower vases. \n  \nOh yes\, \nthe planet \nis sublime! \nIt’s full of \npipes \nweaving \nhand-held \nthrough tobacco smoke\, \nand keys \nand salt shakers— \neverything\, \nI mean\, \nthat is made \nby the hand of man\, every little thing: \nshapely shoes\, \nand fabric \nand each new \nbloodless birth \nof gold\, \neyeglasses\, \ncarpenter’s nails\, \nbrushes\, \nclocks\, compasses\, \ncoins\, and the so-soft \nsoftness of chairs. \n  \nMankind has \nbuilt \noh so many \nperfect \nthings! \nBuilt them of wool \nand of wood\, \nof glass and \nof rope: \nremarkable \ntables\, \nships\, and stairways. \n  \nI love \nall \nthings\, \nnot because they are \npassionate \nor sweet-smelling \nbut because\, \nI don’t know\, \nbecause \nthis ocean is yours\, \nand mine: \nthese buttons \nand wheels \nand little \nforgotten \ntreasures\, \nfans upon \nwhose feathers \nlove has scattered \nits blossoms\, \nglasses\, knives and \nscissors— \nall bear \nthe trace \nof someone’s fingers \non their handle or surface\, \nthe trace of a distant hand \nlost \nin the depths of forgetfulness. \n  \nI pause in houses\, \nstreets and \nelevators\, \ntouching things\, \nidentifying objects \nthat I secretly covet: \nthis one because it rings\, \nthat one because \nit’s as soft \nas the softness of a woman’s hip\, \nthat one there for its deep-sea color\,  \nand that one for its velvet feel. \n  \nO irrevocable  \nriver \nof things: \nno one can say \nthat I loved \nonly \nfish\, \nor the plants of the jungle and field\, \nthat I loved \nonly \nthose things that leap and climb\, desire\, and survive. \nIt’s not true: \nmany things conspired  \nto tell me the whole story. \nNot only did they touch me\, \nor my hand touched them: \nthey were \nso close \nthat they were a part  \nof my being\, \nthey were so alive with me \nthat they lived half my life \nand will die half my death. \n  \n—Pablo Neruda\, from Odes to Common Things\, edited & illustrated by Ferris Cook\, translated by Ken Krabbenhoft \n  \nlove to all\, \n—Johnny Stallings
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-9-15-23/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20231005
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20231102
DTSTAMP:20260425T190231
CREATED:20231006T234331Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T135356Z
UID:4181-1696464000-1698883199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  10/5/23
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nOctober 5\, 2023 \n  \n  \nMy friend\, I am going to tell the story of my life\, as you wish; and if it were only the story of my life I think I would not tell it…. \nIt is the story of all life that is holy and is good to tell\, and of us two-leggeds sharing it with the four-leggeds and the wings of the air and all green things; for these are children of one mother and their father is one Spirit…. \nNow that I can see it all as from a lonely hilltop\, I know it was the story of a mighty vision given to a man too weak to use it; of a holy tree that should have flourished in a people’s heart with flowers and singing birds\, and now it is withered; and of a people’s dream that died in bloody snow. \nBut if the vision was true and mighty\, as I know\, it is true and mighty yet; for such things are of the spirit… \n  \n—Black Elk Speaks by Black Elk\, transcribed and edited by John G. Neihardt\, pp. 1-2 \n* \n  \nBlack Elk (Heháka Sápa) was born on December 1\, 1863 near the Little Powder River in the Montana Territory. He was a holy man of the Oglala Lakota people. He was second cousin of Crazy Horse\, fought in the Battle of Little Bighorn\, participated in the Ghost Dance movement\, survived the Wounded Knee Massacre and toured Europe with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. He is best known for the account of his life he gave to John G. Neihardt\, which was first published in 1932\, and remains in print to this day.  \nAt the age of nine\, Black Elk got a fever\, and remained lying as if dead for twelve days. While absent from this world\, he had a great vision. Here’s a brief excerpt: \n  \nAll the universe was silent\, listening; and then the great black stallion raised his voice and sang. The song he sang was this: \n  \n“My horses\, prancing they are coming. \nMy horses\, neighing they are coming; \nPrancing\, they are coming. \nAll over the universe they come. \nThey will dance; may you behold them. \n                                                             (4 times) \nA horse nation\, may you behold them.  \nMay you behold them.” \n                                                              (4 times) \n  \nHis voice was not loud\, but it went all over the universe and filled it. There was nothing that did not hear\, and it was more beautiful than anything can be. It was so beautiful that nothing anywhere could keep from dancing. The maidens danced\, and all the circled horses. The leaves on the trees\, the grasses on the hills and in the valleys\, the waters in the creeks and in the rivers and the lakes\, the four-legged and the two-legged and the wings of the air—all danced together to the music of the stallion’s song. \nAnd when I looked down upon my people yonder\, the cloud passed over\, blessing them with friendly rain\, and stood in the east with a flaming rainbow over it. \nThen all the horses went singing back to their places beyond the summit of the fourth ascent\, and all things sang along with them as they walked. \nAnd a Voice said: “All over the universe they have finished a day of happiness.” And looking down I saw that the whole wide circle of the day was beautiful and green\, with all fruits growing and all things kind and happy. \nAnd a Voice said: “Behold this day\, for it is yours to make. Now you shall stand upon the center of the earth to see\, for there they are taking you.” \nI was still on my bay horse\, and once more I felt the riders of the west\, the north\, the east\, the south\, behind me in formation\, as before\, and we were going east. I looked ahead and saw the mountains there with rocks and forests on them\, and from the mountains flashed all colors upward to the heavens. Then I was standing on the highest mountain of them all\, and round about beneath me was the whole hoop of the world.* And while I stood there I saw more than I can tell and I understood more than I saw; for I was seeing in a sacred manner the shapes of all things in the spirit\, and the shape of all shapes as they must live together like one being. And I saw that the sacred hoop of my people was one of many hoops that made one circle\, wide as daylight and as starlight\, and in the center grew one mighty flowering tree to shelter all the children of one mother and one father.  And I saw that it was holy. \n  \n*Black Elk said the mountain he stood upon in his vision was Harney Peak in the Black Hills.” But anywhere is the center of the world\,” he added. \n  \n—Black Elk Speaks by Black Elk\, transcribed and edited by John G. Neihardt\, pp. 41-43 \n* \n In his vision six grandfathers who were “old like hills\, like stars” blessed him and told him that he must save his people. He said: “I knew that these were not old men\, but the Powers of the World.” \nAs a nine-year-old boy\, he was unable to tell his people about his vision. By the time he was 17\, his tribe re-enacted much of his vision. This was a very important event in Black Elk’s life. As an old man\, he was heart-broken by what he had lived through and what had happened to his people. He was sad that he had been unable to make real the vision of peace and harmony that had been granted to him. At the end of his life he was a practicing Catholic. He also continued to perform the sacred rites of the Lakota people. \nIn 1947\, Joseph Epes Brown met Black Elk. Concerned that his sacred tradition not be lost\, Black Elk gave him an account of the seven sacred rites of the Oglala Sioux. In 1953\,  Brown published The Sacred Pipe. It is a treasure trove for indigenous peoples and for the rest of us\, whose ancestors were surely indigenous at some point. John Trudell used to say: “We all come from tribes.” \nBlack Elk died in 1950. His vision and his wisdom live on. \n* \n  \nKim Stafford was Oregon’s Poet Laureate from 2018-2020. \n  \nAll My Relations \n  \nI want to thank all my relations \nfor this chance to be on Earth \nin her time of flourishing; to thank \nthe First People of this place\, the \nthe Multnomah people\, the Clackamas\, \nMolalla\, Tualatin\, and Chinook\, to honor \ntheir sovereignty in long and continuing \nrelation\, still teaching us how we might \nbe here together; to thank my mother and father\, \nmoon and sun\, for setting me forth before \ntheir own passing on; to thank my grandmother \nwho listened to me so eloquently I learned \nto listen to my own heart and mind\, to find \nstories and songs there; to thank my family \nand friends\, and all citizens and travelers \nwho study and work for deeper kinship \nin this place\, with one another\, and with \nall creatures\, one Earth\, visible\, palpable\, \nfragile\, intricate\, resonant\, in need of our \nbetter stories. I want to thank you \nwho have gathered to receive what I have \ncarried here—in hope that something \nI have may meet something you need\, \nso all our relations may be strengthened \nfor the life we live together. \n  \n—from Singer Come from Afar by Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nJoy Harjo is a member of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation. She was Poet Laureate of the United States from 2019-2022. She said about her work: \n  \n“I feel strongly that I have a responsibility to all the sources that I am: to all past and future ancestors\, to my home country\, to all places that I touch down on and that are myself\, to all voices\, all women\, all of my tribe\, all people\, all earth\, and beyond that to all beginnings and endings.” \n  \nMy House is the Red Earth \n  \nMy house is the red earth; it could be the center of the world. I’ve heard New York\, Paris\, or Tokyo called the center of the world\, but I say it is magnificently humble. You could drive by and miss it. Radio waves can obscure it. Words cannot construct it\, for there are some sounds left to sacred wordless form. For instance\, that fool crow\, picking through trash near the corral\, understands the center of the world as greasy strips of fat. Just ask him. He doesn’t have to say that the earth has turned scarlet through fierce belief\, after centuries of heartbreak and laughter—he perches on the blue bowl of the sky\, and laughs. \n  \n—from Secrets from the Center of the World by Joy Harjo \n* \n  \nJohn Trudell (1946-2015) was a member of the Santee Dakota tribe. \n  \nGrandfathers Whispering \n  \nGrandfathers whispering \nIn the wind \nRejoice at the life \nYou are a part of \nNatural energy \nBound to natural laws \nYou will survive this \nTemporary madness imposed upon you \nNatural life is longer \nThan oppressors illusionary insanity \nSpirits experience human deeds \nBut need not end \nThis is just one place of changes \n  \nSpirit life is forever if you want \nThe universe is your home \nYou can survive here \nDo not let them kill you \nKeep your spirit strong \nFor distant stars and distant drums \nAre the memories of spirit infancy \nChildren of earth let the spirit live \nSo you can grow in your place \n                                    In the universe \n  \n—from Lines from a Mined Mind by John Trudell \n* \n  \nGary Snyder won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1975. \n  \nMOTHER EARTH: HER WHALES \n  \nAn owl winks in the shadows \nA lizard lifts on tiptoes\, breathing hard \nYoung male sparrow stretches up his neck \n                     big head\, watching— \n  \nThe grasses are working in the sun. Turn it green. \nTurn it sweet. That we may eat. \nGrow our meat. \n  \nBrazil says “sovereign use of Natural Resources” \nThirty thousand kinds of unknown plants. \nThe living actual people of the jungle \n             sold and tortured— \nAnd a robot in a suit who peddles a delusion called “Brazil” \n             can speak for them? \n  \n             The whales turn and glisten\, plunge \n                     and sound and rise again\, \n             Hanging over subtly darkening deeps \n             Flowing like breathing planets \n                   in the sparkling whorls of \n                           living light— \n  \nAnd Japan quibbles for words on \n             what kind of whales they can kill? \nA once-great Buddhist nation \n             dribbles methyl mercury \n             like gonorrhea \n                            in the sea. \n  \nPère David’s Deer\, the Elaphure\, \nLived in the tule marshes of the Yellow River \nTwo thousand years ago—and lost its home to rice— \nThe forests of Lo-yang were logged and all the silt & \nSand flowed down\, and gone\, by 1200 AD— \n  \nWild Geese hatched out in Siberia \n                    head south over basins of the Yang\, the Huang\, \n                    what we call “China” \nOn flyways they have used a million years. \nAh China\, where are the tigers\, the wild boars\, \n                    the monkeys\, \n                        like the snows of yesteryear \nGone in a mist\, a flash\, and the dry hard ground \nIs parking space for fifty thousand trucks. \nIS man most precious of all things? \n—then let us love him\, and his brothers\, all those \nFading living beings— \n  \nNorth America\, Turtle Island\, taken by invaders \n             who wage war around the world. \nMay ants\, may abalone\, otters\, wolves and elk \nRise! and pull away their giving \n             from the robot nations. \n  \nSolidarity. The People. \nStanding Tree People! \nFlying Bird People! \nSwimming Sea People! \nFour-legged\, two legged\, people! \n  \nHow can the head-heavy power-hungry politic scientist \nGovernment         two-world         Capitalist-Imperialist \nThird-world          Communist        paper-shuffling male \n               non-farmer         jet-set        bureaucrats \nSpeak for the green of the leaf? Speak for the soil? \n  \n(Ah Margaret Mead…do you sometimes dream of Samoa?) \n  \nThe robots argue how to parcel out our Mother Earth \nTo last a little longer \n                      like vultures flapping \nBelching\, gurgling\, \n                       near a dying Doe. \n  \n“In yonder field a slain knight lies— \nWe’ll fly to him and eat his eyes \n                       with a down \n          derry derry derry down down.” \n  \n             An owl winks in the shadow \n             A lizard lifts on tiptoe \n                          breathing hard \n             The whales turn and glisten \n                           plunge and \n             Sound\, and rise again \n             Flowing like breathing planets \n  \n             In the sparkling whorls \n  \n             Of living light. \n                                                  Stockholm\, Summer Solstice 40072 \n  \n——from Turtle Island by Gary Snyder \n* \n  \nIn his old age\, Black Elk saw no contradiction between his traditional beliefs and those of Christianity: \n  \nWe have been told by the white men\, or at least by those who are Christian\, that God sent to men His son\, who would restore order and peace upon the earth; and we have been told that Jesus the Christ was crucified\, but that he shall come again at the Last Judgment\, the end of this world or cycle. This I understand and know that it is true\, but the white men should know that for the red people too\, it was the will of Wakan-Tanka\, the Great Spirit\, that an animal turn itself into a two-legged person in order to bring the most holy pipe to His people; and we too were taught that this White Buffalo Cow Woman who brought our sacred pipe will appear again at the end of this “world\,” a coming which we Indians know is now not very far off. \nMany people call it a “peace pipe\,” yet now there is no peace on earth or even between neighbors\, and I have been told that it has been a long time since there has been peace in the world. There is much talk of peace among the Christians\, yet this is just talk. Perhaps it may be\, and this is my prayer that\, through our sacred pipe\, and through this book in which I shall explain what our pipe really is\, peace may come to those peoples who can understand\, an understanding which must be of the heart and not of the head alone. Then they will realize that we Indians know the One true God\, and that we pray to him continually. \nI have wished to make this book through no other desire than to help my people in understanding the greatness and truth of our own tradition\, and also to help in bringing peace upon the earth\, not only among men\, but within men and between the whole of creation. \nWe should understand well that all things are the works of the Great Spirit. We should know that He is within all things: the trees\, the grasses\, the rivers\, the mountains\, and all the four-legged animals\, and the winged peoples; and even more important\, we should understand that He is also above all these things and peoples. When we do understand all this deeply in our hearts\, then we will fear\, and love\, and know the Great Spirit\, and then we will be and act and live as He intends. \n  \n—from Black Elk’s Foreword to The Sacred Pipe\, recorded and edited by Joseph Epes Brown
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-10-5-23/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20231008T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20231008T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T190231
CREATED:20230921T014540Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20231007T000810Z
UID:4155-1696777200-1696784400@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous! Mythic Ireland with Will Hornyak  10/8/23
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! \n  \nOn Sunday\, October 8th\, at 3 p..m. (PDT)\, legendary storyteller WILL HORNYAK will be our SPECIAL GUEST! \nHere’s the link: \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \n  \n  \nMythic Ireland  \n  \nTales\, Legends\, Songs and Lore From the Emerald Isle \n  \nIreland is deeply layered with the myths and tales of many peoples. The landscape is a living manuscript of the doings of countless gods and goddesses\, hags\, heroines\, sorceresses and saints. According to the mythologist Michael Dames\, “Each successive Irish culture seems to become mesmerized by the myths of the previous one. Nothing is rejected. Everything is synthesized.”  So\, over time the stories and plots have mixed and mingled infusing Ireland with a kind of psychic charge and a rich and soulful oral and written storytelling tradition.  We’ll take a stroll through a few tales and ideas. \n  \n–Will Hornyak
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-10-8-23/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20231014T193000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20231014T210000
DTSTAMP:20260425T190231
CREATED:20231003T004040Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20231003T004204Z
UID:4172-1697311800-1697317200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:SILENCE written and performed by Johnny Stallings
DESCRIPTION:painting of Johnny by Nancy Scharbach \n  \n  \nSILENCE \na theatre piece about meditation \nwritten & performed by \nJohnny Stallings \nSaturday\, October 14th\, at 7:30 pm \nat PAUSE *  133 SW 2nd\, #300
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/silence-written-and-performed-by-johnny-stallings/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/10/0-2.jpeg
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20231015
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20231115
DTSTAMP:20260425T190231
CREATED:20231018T183906Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20231215T210653Z
UID:4194-1697328000-1700006399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness  10/15/23
DESCRIPTION:  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nOctober 15\, 2023 \n  \n  \nWalk beautifully\, talk beautifully\, live beautifully. \nLet your heart speak to other hearts. \n  \n—wisdom from Yogi Tea bags \n* \n  \nBe joyful\, though you have considered the facts. \n  \n—Wendell Berry \n* \n  \nSome excerpts from a recent letter (8/31/23) from Rocky: \n  \nToday was a good day for me here. Almost everything ran smoothly. My dog Nelly is programming well & so am I. I’m on my way to being one of the primary trainers. That means I will also be training another A.I.C. [Adult In Custody]! Real work! All of this is going well. \n  \nMy mind has been wondering & thinking about what we have been talking about in the whole relationship department. I’m not sure how all of that will happen. “Organically” I hope. But you do not have to worry about me trying to save anyone! I might be the one that needs to be saved. LOL. I’m getting out to a whole new world\, one that I do not know too much about. \n  \nHonestly\, I want someone I can admire and appreciate and muse over. A simple\, kind love that is fun & sweet. That would be really…nice. Hummm…we will see how it goes! It should be hard to find her I think. LOL. I would like to know & love someone completely & be known & loved by them. Kind & gently & with happiness. I don’t feel I am damaged any longer. I can only feel the scars\, which is really good. It took a long time for them to heal. \n  \nWhen I was 22 or 23 years old\, I was working as a “cedar maggot.” We did not cut down living trees\, but cut up and cleaned up what the old time pioneers left on the forest floor. You see\, bugs don’t like cedar wood too much & cedar does not really rot too fast. The old timers would cut only the “clear” wood\, from the stump to where the branches started\, and leave the rest to rot. That’s where we came in. We cut all that left over stuff and we turned it into cedar bolts for shakes & shingles. \n  \nOne morning I climbed up on a tall cedar stump to sharpen my saw. There\, stuck in the stump\, was a rusted old wedge & the head of an axe with a splintered handle! There were also five pieces of yellow glass and an aluminum ring laying in a pile of rust—the remains of an old time lantern! All that stuff had been there for a long time. \n  \nAll of these moments we all have in our lives are what we are made of—strands of our hearts\, links in our minds\, reflections in our souls. I\, in my mind\, have returned to that stump\, the smell of the woods\, many times over the many years I’ve been in prison. My place of peace & solace when the weight of correction becomes much too much. \n  \nThe place in the woods\, the stump\, wedge\, axe & lantern glass are all lost\, as they should be. Magic does not just linger in one place. Maybe I took it in my soul & that is a good thought & it’s true? I go there often & I could have captured it that day so long ago all for myself & that is a good thought. It makes me smile to think it’s all mine\, & now yours too. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \n#363   Why Wait to be Happy? \n“Many people in our society are not happy\, even though the conditions for their happiness already exist. Their habit energy is always pushing them ahead\, preventing them from being happy in the here and now. But with a little bit of training\, we can all learn to recognize this energy every time it comes up. Why wait to be happy?”  \n—from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nWhat makes me happy? What brings me joy? I’ll tell you\, for me\, it’s opening to love. Letting love in. \n  \nI have to admit\, sometimes I have episodes of resentment\, judgment\, selfishness\, defensiveness…more often than not\, though\, these episodes are brief and they just—melt away. The other day we were discussing Thanksgiving. I’d already offered to have Thanksgiving at our house\, for ‘my side’ of the family\, and then in passing\, I offered and invited David’s sister and others on ‘his side.’ When Mary called to confirm\, she breezily\, albeit apologetically\, announced that ‘everyone’ wanted to come\, like fourteen people!  ‘My side’ includes only five people. I had the distinct physical sensation of my heart balling up like a tight fist. ‘Fourteen\,’  I kind of gasped. Did I gasp\, or bellow? I’m not sure. I struggled for a bit with all those big negative feelings: resentment (pretty nervy to descend with fourteen people!)\, selfishness (‘my side’ will be engulfed!)\, judgment (they are not ‘my kind’ of people). But then the miracle happened: just as precipitously as my heart clenched into that hard fist\, it spilled open and…love…poured out. I just relaxed into love and happiness. “Well\, I think that will just be fine\,” I said. And I meant it. To have all those people\, young and old\, want to come up to our home on the mountain all of a sudden was a wonderful thing. I felt such love and happiness and joy at the thought of twenty family—‘my side’ or ‘his side’—spending the day of Thanksgiving together in our warm\, cozy home\, fire in the fireplace\, maybe even with a dazzling mountain view\, or maybe with a few snowflakes drifting down… \n  \nThis happens often; one moment I’m feeling a little ‘grrrr\,’ the next moment I’ve dissolved into love\, and happiness. Don’t ask me the formula\, the key to unlocking—I don’t understand it myself. I sure recognize it every time it comes up\, but don’t understand the radical nature of it. All I know is that I am in wonder of it myself and never fail to feel blessed. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \npast parentage or gender \nbeyond sung vocables \nthe slipped-between \nthe so infinitesimal \nfault line \na limitless \ninteriority \n  \nbeyond the woven \nunicorn   the maiden \n(man-carved   worm-eaten) \nGod at her hip \nincipient \nthe untransfigured \ncottontail \nbluebell and primrose \ngrowing wild   a strawberry \nchagrin   night terrors \npast the earthlit \nunearthly masquerade \n  \n(we shall be changed) \n  \na silence opens \n  \n—excerpt from “Silence” by Amy Clampitt \n  \nMay we be at peace \nMay all be healed \nMay we be a source of healing for all beings. \n  \nlove\,  \n—Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nLast Thursday\, when friends had gathered for coffee and conversation\, Will Hornyak asked: “What do you do to feed your soul in difficult times?” I passed that question along to some friends\, and here is what they sent me: \n  \nThree poems from Kim for Gaza and Israel: \n  \n     War for the Holy Land \n  \nYou could say it’s Biblical\, this fury \nbetween the children of Yahweh and Allah\, \nthis frenzy of rockets and bombs opening \nthe gates of hell for fire to take and take \nwhere hungry Death stalks the streets. \n  \nWeak leaders need war\, or else we would \nrequire them to be wise and kind. Instead\, \nthis fury allows them to say\, “We wage war \nbecause it’s the anniversary of war\,” and \n“We wage war because they wage war\,” \n  \nand everyone else goes along with it\, \nan eye for an eye\, a child for a child. \n  \n  \n     Peacenik\, War-nik \n  \nWhen there are two sides\, \nand one side starts shooting\, \nwhat are the rest of us to do? \nPeace-mongers may run and hide\, \n  \nwhile war gives warriors a certain \nclarity: be the implement between \ncommand and death. Hawks seek \nprey\, while doves sort seed. \n  \nFlower child\, thistle child—when \nwe hear an angry leader speak \nof vengeance\, of human animals\, \nthen it’s up to all of us. \n  \n  \n     Armor \n  \nWhat armor can our hearts put on \nwhen facts and photos find us\, far war \nhunting us from hiding? Now news \nbecomes an implement to pry us open \nso we\, too\, carry children through smoke \nand rubble. We bury victims of atrocity\, \nflee with only what we can carry. We find \nour kinfolk heaped. We are the massacre. \nWe try to keep the beating drum from \ngiving in\, giving up. We guard our capacity \nfor hurt\, each wound proving we feel\, proving \ndivisions are a lie\, proving our complicity. \nOld heart\, let suffering prove we are kin. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nNavigation \n  \nIn early morning dark\, I could meditate. \nI have done. 40 mornings. Sa Ta Na Ma. \nThe fingers of both hands in rhythm. \nAwkward\, fumbly. Good for the brain \n  \nThey say. Integration of the hemispheres. \nInstead\, I feed the cat. Fend off the worst \nof the arthritis with small movements \nuntil I can sit upright at a keyboard. \n  \nNo\, not music. That would be lovely\, \na little Chopin. A laptop. Precious tool\, \ndictation. I close my eyes. And talk. \nIf I look\, I want to edit\, dangerous walk \n  \nThis revision thing. More conversational \nthis way. The petty indignities\, frets from \ndays before\, get out all the surface stuff\, \nthe annoyances\, so the sweet stuff \n  \nHas room to grow into the day. \nAn unexpected bloom of affection \nor engagement with something \nabsurd and wonderful. \n  \nDid you know that if you smell \nThe inside of your elbow \nIt clears the nasal palate for all \nThe aromas the next encounter will bring? \n  \nElizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nIn answer to Will’s question… \n  \nThe times are always difficult. There is still the urgent question: How do you feed your soul? I try to nurture peace\, love\, happiness and understanding within myself. Without them\, I don’t have much to offer my fellow mortals that might be helpful. And I enjoy them for their own sake. I try to live a life that is rich in meaning. Life is short. Each day\, each moment\, is precious. I try to pay attention. And not forget to say thank you thank you thank you. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nI write. That takes many forms. Novel\, screenplay\, song\, essay\, memoir. Just whatever I’m currently doing\, that has a world I can dive into\, and let everything else fall away. If I’m too brain-tired to do any of that\, I’ll do a crossword puzzle\, and if that’s too much\, I’ll go for Wordle. I lose myself in words\, and if I’m doing a song\, the music is extra bonus points. \n  \n—J Kahn \n* \n  \nHow to cope with a calamity\, of which there seem to be a surfeit? I started to add “right now” but that is not true…there is always a surfeit of despair. One necessary action is to be involved in preventing or ameliorating the disaster. Often you can help others. It sustains all of us to mutually better situations and solve problems.  \n  \nHow else do we come to terms with difficulties? For me both music and poetry are deep sources of consolation. I started to list poems and then realized the list is endless. Follow your own loves and you will find many poems that speak to the heart. A good starting one is Wendell Berry’s: \n  \nThe Peace of Wild Things \n  \nWhen despair for the world grows in me\nand I wake in the night at the least sound\nin fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be\,\nI go and lie down where the wood drake\nrests in his beauty on the water\, and the great heron feeds.\nI come into the peace of wild things\nwho do not tax their lives with forethought\nof grief. I come into the presence of still water.\nAnd I feel above me the day-blind stars\nwaiting with their light. For a time\nI rest in the grace of the world\, and am free. \n  \nAnd\, yes\, being in the wild\, whether a city park or untrammeled mountains\, is a deep source of nurture. Not consolation. Nature can be wild and destructive but not cruel. It is a vital reminder of the nurture and persistence of the world.  \n  \nOliver Sacks said that music is the one art that is both abstract and emotional\, it can elevate and reassure us\, deeply touch the place where we have no words. That is certainly true\, and my music may be very different than yours but both are the endless world of sound and silence that envelop us. \n  \nBut above all: find what you love\, give yourself to it\, work through reward and pain and frustration. Give yourself to it. Your immersion will carry you through so many griefs. Don’t do it all alone. We need one another\, we need community and its irreplaceable links. As the poet June Jordan often reminded us\, we are a community in fact and in aspiration. \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nJill sent this poem: \n  \nThe Red Wheelbarrow \n  \nso much depends \nupon \n  \na red wheel \nbarrow \n  \nglazed with rain \nwater \n  \nbeside the white \nchickens \n  \n—William Carlos Williams \n  \n—Jill Littlewood
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-10-15-23/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20231022T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20231022T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T190231
CREATED:20231021T174432Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20231021T175513Z
UID:4201-1697986800-1697994000@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  10/22/23
DESCRIPTION:Grinnell Lake in Glacier National Park \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! \n  \nOn Sunday\, October 22nd\, our theme is Peace & War. \nWhat have you read–books\, essays\, poems–that illuminates this subject?  \nThe conversation will not be limited to what we’ve read\, but will also include what we’ve experienced and Will’s question: “How do you feed your soul in difficult times?” \n  \nThe Zoom gathering starts at 3 pm (PDT). Here’s the link: \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nI hope to see you there. \n  \npeace\, love & happiness  \n  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-10-22-23/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20231030
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20231207
DTSTAMP:20260425T190231
CREATED:20231030T172247Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T135604Z
UID:4212-1698624000-1701907199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  11/2/23
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \n  \nNovember 2\, 2023 \n  \nPeople who love are happy. \n  \n—Yogi Tea bag wisdom \n* \n  \nMy friends and I have been talking about the ongoing violence in the Middle East. Kim wrote: \n  \nI lie awake at night thinking about Gaza. I have a friend there. She has fled her home and is camped in a house near Rafah with six families. \nBombing happens there\, too. \nHence\, today’s (10/26) poem… \n  \n      Other Laws of War \n  \nWhere anger flares\, wisdom withers. \nWhere death thrives\, truth dies. \nBoth sides are the bad guys. \nAs with weather\, no one is in charge. \nEven precision kills children. \nWar funds the hate school. \nDead soldier\, mourning mother. \nStrategic advantage limits thought. \nYour vengeance vow is a trap. \nLocal victory\, regional defeat. \nKilling gives killers secret wounds. \nA war wounds a generation. \nEasy to start\, hard to end. \nMunitions makers always win. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nMark Danley reminded me about Mark Twain’s “The War Prayer\,” written in 1905. When asked if he intended to publish it\, Twain said: “No. I have told the whole truth in that\, and only dead men can tell the truth in this world. It can be published after my death.” Mark Twain died in 1910. “The War Prayer” was first published in 1923. \n  \n  \nThe War Prayer \n  \nIt was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms\, the war was on\, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism. On every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun. Nightly\, the packed mass meetings listened\, panting\, to patriot oratory which stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts\, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause\, the tears running down their cheeks the while. In the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country\, and invoked the God of Battles—beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which moved every listener. \n  \nSunday morning came. Next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there\, their young faces alight with martial dreams—visions of the stern advance\, the gathering momentum\, the rushing charge\, the flashing sabers\, the flight of the foe\, the tumult\, the enveloping smoke\, the fierce pursuit\, the surrender Then home from the war\, bronzed heroes\, welcomed\, adored\, submerged in golden seas of glory! The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said. \n  \nThen came the “long” prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was\, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers\, and aid\, comfort\, and encourage them in their patriotic work. \n  \nAn aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle\, his eyes fixed upon the minister\, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet\, his head bare\, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders\, his seamy face unnaturally pale\, pale even to ghastliness. He ascended to the preacher’s side and stood there waiting. \n  \nThe stranger touched his arm\, motioned him to step aside—which the startled minister did—and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes\, in which burned an uncanny light. Then in a deep voice he said: \n  \n“I come from the Throne—bearing a message from Almighty God!” \n  \n“God’s servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No\, it is two—one uttered\, the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him Who heareth all supplications\, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this—keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself\, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs it\, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor’s crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it. \n  \n“You have heard your servant’s prayer—the uttered part of it. I am commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it—that part which the pastor\, and also you in your hearts—fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these words: ‘Grant us the victory\, O Lord our God!’ When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory–must follow it\, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen! \n  \n“O Lord our Father\, our young patriots\, idols of our hearts\, go forth to battle—be Thou near them! With them—in spirit—we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God\, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded\, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst\, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter\, broken in spirit\, worn with travail\, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it. For our sakes who adore Thee\, Lord\, blast their hopes\, blight their lives\, protract their bitter pilgrimage\, make heavy their steps\, water their way with their tears\, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it in the spirit of love\, of Him Who is the Source of Love\, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid\, with humble and contrite hearts. Amen. \n  \n(After a pause.) “Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it\, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits!” \n  \nIt was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic\, because there was no sense in what he said. \n  \n—Mark Twain \n* \n  \nOn YouTube you can find a film version\, adapted by Marco Sanchez and directed by Michael Goorjian. \n* \n  \nfrom CNN’s website on October 27th: \n  \nSari Beth Rosenberg was teaching a high school history class in New York City recently when a student interrupted her with a question: “Are you Team Israel or Team Palestinian?”…. \n  \nRosenberg\, who is Jewish\, feared that getting into a conversation on the complexities of the conflict could alienate some of her students with ties to the Middle East. So she tried to turn the question into a learning experience. \n  \n“I told them I’m ‘Team Humanity\,’” she says. She told her students that she thought both the deadly Hamas terror attacks in Israel and Israel’s ongoing bombing of Gaza are horrific. \n* \n  \nWhen I was a young man it was against the law to not join the military. I refused to obey that law for the simple reason that I didn’t want to kill anyone. Instead of going to Vietnam\, I went to India and studied with yogis. \n  \nI am against all present and future wars. Our problems can be solved with words\, instead of violence. Wars represent a failure of dialogue\, of intelligence\, of empathy\, of good will\, of love\, of imagination. All children are our children.  \n  \nOn the Fields of Peace website (fieldsofpeace.org) we learn that in World War I\, one civilian was killed for every 9 soldiers. In World War II\, the ratio was one to one. In modern warfare\, one soldier is killed for every 9 (unarmed) civilians—most of whom are children. From the perspective of people my age\, soldiers are children. Here’s my latest version of the Metta Prayer: \n  \nMay all people be happy. \nMay we live in peace & love. \nEven if some people are making other choices. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nThich Nhat Hanh (1926-2022) was a Vietnamese Buddhist monk who advocated for peace and refused to take a side in the war. He taught meditation & mindfulness to people throughout the world. He published many books\, including Being Peace\, Creating True Peace and Peace is Every Step. He was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize by Martin Luther King. Here is his poem “Please Call Me by My True Names\,” followed by an account of how he came to write it: \n  \nPlease Call Me by My True Names \n  \nDo not say that I’ll depart tomorrow— \neven today I am still arriving. \nLook deeply: every second I am arriving \nto be a bud on a Spring branch\, \nto be a tiny bird\, with still-fragile wings\, \nlearning to sing in my new nest\, \nto be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower\, \nto be a jewel hiding itself in a stone. \nI still arrive\, in order to laugh and to cry\, \nto fear and to hope\, \nthe rhythm of my heart is the birth and death \nof all that are alive. \nI am the mayfly metamorphosing \non the surface of the river\, \nand I am the bird which\, when Spring comes\, \narrives in time to eat the mayfly. \nI am the frog swimming happily \nin the clear water of a pond\, \nand I am the grass-snake \nthat silently feeds itself on the frog. \nI am the child in Uganda\, all skin and bones\, \nmy legs as thin as bamboo sticks. \nAnd I am the arms merchant\, \nselling deadly weapons to Uganda. \nI am the twelve-year-old girl\, \nrefugee on a small boat\, \nwho throws herself into the ocean \nafter being raped by a sea pirate. \nAnd I am the pirate\, \nmy heart not yet capable \nof seeing and loving. \nI am a member of the politburo\, \nwith plenty of power in my hands. \nAnd I am the man who has to pay his \n“debt of blood” to my people \ndying slowly in a forced labor camp. \nMy joy is like Spring\, so warm \nit makes flowers bloom all over the Earth. \nMy pain is like a river of tears\, \nso vast it fills the four oceans. \nPlease call me by my true names\, \nso I can hear all my cries and laughter at once\, \nso I can see that my joy and pain are one. \nPlease call me by my true names\, \nso I can wake up \nand so the door of my heart can be left open\, \nthe door of compassion. \n  \n  \nAfter the Vietnam War\, many people wrote to us in Plum Village. We received hundreds of letters each week from the refugee camps in Singapore\, Malaysia\, Indonesia\, Thailand\, and the Philippines\, hundreds each week. It was very painful to read them\, but we had to be in contact. We tried our best to help\, but the suffering was enormous\, and sometimes we were discouraged. It is said that half the boat people fleeing Vietnam died in the ocean; only half arrived at the shores of Southeast Asia. \n  \nThere are many young girls\, boat people\, who were raped by sea pirates. Even though the United Nations and many countries tried to help the government of Thailand prevent that kind of piracy\, sea pirates continued to inflict much suffering on the refugees. One day\, we received a letter telling us about a young girl on a small boat who was raped by a Thai pirate. She was only twelve\, and she jumped into the ocean and drowned herself. \n  \nWhen you first learn of something like that\, you get angry at the pirate. You naturally take the side of the girl. As you look more deeply you will see it differently. If you take the side of the little girl\, then it is easy. You only have to take a gun and shoot the pirate. But we can’t do that. In my meditation\, I saw that if I had been born in the village of the pirate and raised in the same conditions as he was\, I would now be the pirate. There is a great likelihood that I would become a pirate. I can’t condemn myself so easily. In my meditation\, I saw that many babies are born along the Gulf of Siam\, hundreds every day\, and if we educators\, social workers\, politicians\, and others do not do something about the situation\, in twenty-five years a number of them will become sea pirates. That is certain. If you or I were born today in those fishing villages\, we might become sea pirates in twenty-five years. If you take a gun and shoot the pirate\, you shoot all of us\, because all of us are to some extent responsible for this state of affairs. \n  \nAfter a long meditation\, I wrote this poem. In it\, there are three people: the twelve-year-old girl\, the pirate\, and me. Can we look at each other and recognize ourselves in each other? The title of the poem is “Please Call Me by My True Names\,” because I have so many names. When I hear one of the of these names\, I have to say\, “Yes.” \n  \n—Thich Nhat Hanh
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-11-2-23/
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