Portland is a beautiful city. And to make life even more enjoyable the public transportation is frequent and

efficient. I take the city train and end up a few blocks from "Powells Bookstore" a real sanctuary for bookworms. The place has several floors -all of them gigantic- and books -used and new- in practically every subject. At the entrance, half a dozen of employees have their desks and by punching a couple of keys on their computers, they can tell you the exact location of the book you are looking for.

I walk through the large corridors, and time begins to disappear. I open a book. A poet of the thirteen-century speaks to me. The words sound foreign. I kept reading. I notice the words have their own tempo. People in those days where not in such a rush like we are now. I slow down, begin to read outloud (fortunately there are no people around me, which encourages me to go on). Eventually I hit the rhythm with which the words were written and little by little the distance begins to shorten. As I encounter the same words again, speak them slowly and decisively, they become less and less foreign. The words, pale at first, begin to emanate color and flavor. I allow myself to be taken over by the magic of the poet, and I met him there, in the ageless poem. Now I see that there is more to the poem than the words in which it is written in. I can see not only the scenes described by the poem, but even elements that were not mentioned at all. The poet gave a few strokes here and there, and he invited the reader to enter the poem, to fill in the gaps. A few illustrations here and there in the book assist me in the journey.

"Excuse me Sir" an employee -who apparently has been standing near me for a while- finally says "I am sorry but we are about to close."

"Close?" I wonder, and I think to myself "where did the daylight go?"

I sigh. I still have a few pages to go. I look at the cover, go to the first page and sigh again. I can not get that friend this time. "I will miss you" I say in my head "hopefully I will run into you again." And I walk out of that wonderful place.

The poet continues to speak in my mind as I walk the streets of Portland.

I encounter an attractive sign. "Oyster Bar."

I get closer. Read somemore.

I find out that the Restaurant has been here for over a century.

Impressive.

I haven't tried the oysters.

I go in. A fine elder woman brings me the menu and I tell her "this is my first time"

The lady smiles at me and clasps her hands.

"Would you like some suggestions,” she asks.

"By all means."

She explains some things to me. There is a whole variety of oysters, many ways of enjoying them.

"We are going to do something special,” the lady finally says.

A moment latter, my table is covered with a wide variety of small plates, each one a different one.

What a concert of colors!

And I dive into them.

The lady checks on me from time to time. Now she also brings me small glasses each one with a different beer from Oregon.

I marvel. I have gone from one sanctuary to another one.

I express my gratitude to my host.

"My pleasure" the lady says, "you come back."

And I will.

Walk out the door. A starry night above me.

I have so much energy in me, that I decide to walk back to the hotel. And I turn the page of another day.

With the sunrise I am up and excited about this day. The world conference on violence is taking place at Portland University.

I get there. I meet people from different parts of the globe. They announce the Keynote Speaker. Large auditorium, filled to capacity. A variety of colors, a diversity of cultures, a spectrum of Languages. I take the mike: I am the speaker.

I share with the audience what I have learned from my friends the day before. From the Colombians, that Colombia is officially the most violent country in the world. Why? Because they have lost half of their population to violence.

I share with them what I have learned from the Salvadorians. That just a couple of months ago, they have also entered the tragic statistics of Colombia. They too have lost half of their population to violence.

My friends told me about their efforts in their countries to stop the violence.

"Since we have been afflicted with this tragedy" Doctora Amparo from Colombia tells me "we have also been developing a wide variety of strategies to try to reverse the effects of violence." And they have. With few resources, and an enormous amount of heart and creativity, a group of dedicated concern community members has been diligently fighting the drug cartels, and the immobility of their military forces and politicians, with vigorous community development programs. Some of their most daring ones, have some trained community members befriend the street kids -the ones on whom gang members and drug dealers recruit their members- and offer their support and services to them. Many of these kids eventually become social workers, teachers, community organizers themselves. They choose life, family, community. Drugs and money loose their grip on them. They clean their lives, their hearts, and their souls. They become incorruptible. They are coming out of hell. They been there. Hell doesn't scare them anymore. Now they have discovered solidarity, consciousness, love. A new brotherhood, a new way of life. And their Spirit is unbreakable.

Some of them are here. I ask them to send one of their member’s forward. One of them comes.

We also find these groups of life in El Salvador. I ask for one of their members to come forward. They organize among themselves and select one. He comes. These groups are sprouting all around the world. Where there is darkness, violence, death, there too, facing them, taking a stand, we find light, peace, and life!

I keep talking about violence all around the world, and the groups of non-violence that also rise around the world, until there, on the stage, with me, we have representatives of all the continents.

I feel good. I am surrounded by some of the best representatives of our humanity.

"Look at them!" I ask.

We have a tapestry of colors, of cultures, of languages, and within them the same heart.

I then deposit in their hands rattles made by the children of many elementary schools of Oregon.

I explain the tradition of the ancient rattle keepers. The rattles contained the best seeds of the harvest. If for whatever reason, the harvest was lost, and there was no life left in the fields, the rattle keepers would appear, form a circle in their community, and bring forth the precious rattles. Then they would go to the center, and break the rattles. The seeds, the precious seeds would them be brought forward, planted. If there was no water, people would nurture them with their own tears, and the seeds would grow, multiply. Life would return to the community.

I ask my friends to share a few words for their country and continent and then set the seeds free. We all stand. Each representative speaks, and breaks his rattle. One by one until all the rattles are open.

I turn to the audience.

"Go to your community" I tell them "take a rattle with you. Look within: Your heart is the rattle, set the seeds of love free!"

And my friends go to the four corners of the world, and all of my love goes with them too.