Lisa Meadows Garfield

"HAITI ISN'T READY FOR DEMOCRACY"

2011-02-18T12:00:00.000-08:00

That's what the Haitian lady said on the bus, the one who is from Cap Haitien but who has lived in Atlanta for 25 years. She grew up in Haiti under the Duvalier reign and reported that it was wonderful. What we hear in the US are the reports and rumors of the reign of terror of Papa Doc and Baby Doc, how they would simply kill those they thought were any sort of threat, how the voice of the people was squelched and silenced. But what she experienced was a life of peace and security, where "I could walk on any street, at any time of day, and feel safe, where we didn't lock our doors and had plenty to eat." Her view is that Haiti still needs someone to tell the people what to do, someone strong and bossy, like a dictator.

It brings up the puzzling question of who knows what is right for another, whether that Other is a child, a nation, or any group of people. We Americans believe with fervor in the superiority of democratic government, in a nation run by and for the people. It seems perfectly obvious that such a form of government is better than any sort led by a king or a tsar or a dictator. Whenever too much power rests in the hands of just one person, or a small group of people, there is the very real danger of corruption. And "enemies" often die.

But what if our Haitian friend is right? What if you have to grow into democracy, reach a certain level of self-confidence and maturity as a people before you can trust yourselves to govern your own nation? We don't give two-year-olds the same governing rights as eighteen-year-olds. Maybe nations are not much different than children.

The real question then becomes,"Who, then, should govern the nation? Who has the right to impose their own brand of "good government" on a developing country?" I am the furthest thing from a political analyst, but I can see this playing out all over the globe. I'm a fervent believer in democracy, too, but I understand the anger of some groups of people toward Americans, because we certainly look to be trying to democratize the world, to push our own values without real regard for other systems of thought. Sometimes we use guns and tanks to do it. I'm not suggesting we're wrong to try to bring something better to struggling nations. I'm just saying we can't stand there scratching our heads in perplexity when they don't welcome us with open arms.

But I digress into areas about which I am distinctly unqualified to comment. It's just that her verdict about her own home country of Haiti intriqued me and set me wondering.

What do you think?

HAITI

2011-02-16T13:11:00.001-08:00

I know some of you are curious about my recent trip to Haiti. Sue Osborne, my longtime friend and traveling companion is blogging up a storm about it, so rather than be redundant, I'm sending you to her blog here: http://nostalgic-nana.blogspot.com/ to get a good idea of our trip. We shared my camera since Sue forgot her charger, so all the pictures she's posting are "ours".

My trip was all kinds of awesome. A curious observation: there in Haiti, with only sporadic power and water (and never hot running water, my very favorite thing), on a diet of rice and beans, sleeping in bits and fits under a mosquito net -- I was deeply happy every single moment. I don't know if it was the slower pace, the back-to-basics lifestyle, the incredible team of people working so tirelessly and selflessly for the good of others, the lush beauty of the Haitian mountain country, or getting sticky and dirty with soil and varnish and sweat and service every day -- but whatever it was, I experienced it as a gift, precious and unexpected. Misty, a volunteer student midwife from Arizona, summed it up thusly, "This has been a time of healing for me here in Haiti." Though I didn't even know I was so broken, that's exactly how Haiti felt for me.

The guidebook begins, "Haiti will capture your heart" and that, too, proved true. Poor as poor gets, with problems that span centuries, Haiti nonetheless speaks to something real and little acknowledged in our soul, some sense of deep connection -- to the earth and to each other, some inarticulate truth that settles and stays, even here at home, hidden away in our hearts. I know I'm not alone in this experience. I can't even tell how it will show up in my life; it's so foreign to my American mindset. I feel it like a latent disease, and it may in fact manifest as dis-ease, leading to action, or it may simply rest in me forever as a touchstone of truth.

Haiti has my heart, at any rate.

PASSION

2011-01-25T12:00:00.000-08:00

I'm reading a book by Tracy Kidder called "Mountains Beyond Mountains" about a doctor named Paul Farmer who is a major player in the fight for equitable health care around the world. His passion is the people of Haiti and the poor everywhere; his tireless work both amazes and inspires me and trips my guilt-o-meter. I remember feeling the same way when I read about Albert Schweitzer when I was a kid.

And I've been watching some TV: the movie "A Beautiful Mind" about schizophrenic John Nash, whose passion for math has impacted much of our modern business; a PBS special about a scientist from Papua New Guinea who passionately pursues (in the field) the study of the various species of Birds of Paradise; another PBS show about a guy who at 15 years old, decided to make his life work the saving of the kahou bird in Bermuda, thought to be extinct for 300 years.

I love people of passion. I could name many more examples, and so could you. Now, here's my problem. I consider myself (accurately, I believe) a passionate person. But I can't figure out how people can concentrate for a whole lifetime on just one thing, how that one thing can fuel their passion so. Or so it seems.

I've always had this problem. Which is why, in college, I was elated to discover that Humanities was a major, that I could study language and music and art and philosophy and culture all under one banner. And now, decades later, I can get all fired up to save the birds or the children or the local library or the gifted program or the homebound elderly or the mamas and babies of Haiti or anything else that captures my attention in the moment. But I can't seem to maintain a focused energy long enough to do the kind of work that so many are doing in the world, running small (or large) charities and foundations, serving long missions, giving their lives to serving the truly needy.

I'm not trying to denigrate the small good I do in my own life; it just seems so paltry when I learn of some of the things other passionate people are doing in the world. I'm headed to Haiti for a week, to volunteer in a birth clinic. I'm excited and happy to serve. But I'm carrying some guilt, too, that at the end of the week, I can leave. Most of the people of Haiti, those stuck in grinding, life-sapping poverty, have no such option. The injustice and inequity of it pricks my soul. And there are those who come to help and who stay, sometimes for years, like Paul Farmer or the good folks on the post-earthquake ground of Haiti, who have more time and freedom than I, because I've chosen to focus my service in my home.

But do they also have more passion? I fear I am lacking a larger vision for my life. I wonder why I am always so moved by stories of do-gooders, why I have always felt called to such a life, why I'm not living that life more fully. It's a constant personal conflict, this acknowledgement that what I do and how I live is, in fact, one manifestation of a life of passion and love, contrasted with this pull to larger circles of service. I worry that I've grown lazy, that I wouldn't be able to answer a call to larger service, despite my theoretical passion, that I've buried talents to the point of atrophy. I worry that my passion for such things is really a mask for ego. I worry that I may be ignoring opportunities in my own sphere of influence by focusing beyond the mark. I worry that I'll never figure this all out.

In the meantime, I'm headed to Haiti, with my sincere passion to help, with my worry and my guilt. Prayers are welcome. So are donations. Please check out www.mamababyhaiti.org to find out about the organization I'll be with. They are perfect examples of passionate,compassionate service.

WHY I CHOOSE JESUS

2011-01-22T10:05:00.000-08:00

I learn from many of the great teachers of humanity. This year I am studying the Tao te Ching in depth. My yoga practice is deepening me. I love to read wise writers like M. Scott Peck and Shakti Gawain and Wayne Dyer, because they point me to God.

And that's the difference between all these great spiritual leaders and Jesus. Jesus doesn't just point me to God by his teachings and his example. He brings me directly to God. He is the only one able to take me back Home.

I'm an all or nothing sort of girl. If I ask for a glass of water, I want a full glass. If I've any leanings toward personal fulfillment, I want to take it all the way. I'm not interested in half measures.

And that is why I m a disciple of Jesus Christ. He is not a man of half measures. He takes it all the way. He will take me all the way, if I but let him. I am fully aware that I can't perfect myself on my own. I am grateful for fellow travelers who share their light in word and deed, who sometimes give their life for Truth.

Jesus did more than give his life for Truth. Somehow he reconciled our sorry little souls with God. It is in us to become gods. We are the children of God, after all. But I don't need to tell you how far from the goal we all are.

Others give me tips for the journey. Jesus walks with me all the way and waves his magic Jedi hand at every obstacle. I don't profess to understand it. But I trust him completely. So on we go, Jesus and me.

TRUSTING THE RHYTHM

2010-03-01T09:22:00.000-08:00

I've been sitting on the couch for a couple of weeks. The sun pours through my big windows directly onto my seeking face. I squint, but I don't move. I read and sit and think and pray and sit and soak in the sun.

On Sunday nights, I make my list for the week, as usual. The next Sunday, it's not much changed, because I don't do anything. I sit on the couch and occasionally worry about it, wondering if I should care. I don't care. I am wrapped in some numbing air that forbids movement, action.

I wonder if this is a new form of depression, this inaction, this ennui. But I am not sad. I am not anything. I am just sitting.

And then I am done. This morning, I cleaned the refrigerator, the stove, two bathrooms, the microwave, the clothes, and even the grills on the stove hood. All before 9 a.m.

Sometimes we just need to sit. We need to be and not do. I feel guilty about the not doing, because I am tainted by a world where productivity is the mark of success and worthiness. Just to be is somehow suspect. And yet, it is all. I AM, He said.

Interestingly, as I reviewed the week Sunday night, I noticed that I had actually accomplished quite a few tasks on my list. Not by trying or planning or even consciously doing. But somehow, they got done. Just by being.

It's 9:45 a.m. now. And I'm going to sit on the couch.

CANCER

2010-02-04T12:59:00.000-08:00

My dad has cancer. He told me last July at my sister's wedding in Georgia. We sat sideways on folding chairs, me in my borrowed blue dress, my chin on my hand on the back of the chair, Dad in his father-of-the-bride suit, his boutonniere beginning to droop in the afternoon sun. He has prostate cancer, stage 4. He outlined his treatment plan, which involved trips to Los Angeles to a cancer clinic called Compassionate Oncology. He was full of hope and good humor. So I was, too, that late summer afternoon.

It's half a year later. Dad has completed his chemo series and continues with hormone treatment and a cocktail of drugs. The cancer growths are smaller, his PSA count down to under 1%. This is good news. He has stents in his kidneys because the cancer was interfering with his kidney function. That is why he is in Los Angeles this week, to have the stents replaced (though the doctor had hoped to remove them). It is the reason I have driven 1,100 miles to be here with my dad. My brother, Greg, is here, as well. The three of us spent 13 hours on Tuesday at the hospital and the clinic. We enjoyed a long walk along Venice Beach in the California sun on Wednesday and then went our separate ways.

Cancer changes things. My dad, for one. He looks suddenly older; he's lost his hair and his always-slight frame is even more gaunt. My first thought when I picked him up at the airport was, "He looks like a cancer patient." Even though his progress has been good, it can't be easy to have to shift from a healthy, active lifestyle to having to depend on Depends and wearing those lovely medical support stockings. He bears it all with a tenacious good humor, though. Even when the pad the nurse had given him fell out through his pants leg onto the clinic floor, he didn't notice, much less mind. He reported to me and Greg, patting his wet crotch, "I had a pad, but I don't know where it went." Tuesday was a long but surprisingly entertaining day. Things are always entertaining with Dad around.

But how long will he be around? I see other changes in my Dad, as he comes face to face with his own mortality. I know he's not the first or the last to deal with this, nor am I alone in dealing with a dying parent. We're all dying, I know, but it's only theory until the diagnosis. The reality changes you. I notice that Dad
now has "firm beliefs" about the afterlife; that is new and perhaps inevitable, perhaps harmless. His opinions and judgments about things of this life seem harder, too, as if he needs to sort everything into a clear category, to organize life into a whole that he can understand and manage.

Perhaps none of my observations are valid and that is a caveat that must be clear. I cannot and do not speak for my dad or his experience. I am once removed from the disease, dealing with my own feelings of impending loss, even though I hope and even expect that that is years away. Most of us experience our parents' death while we live. I know I am not alone in this, nor am I even IN the experience yet. But I feel it coming. I am not sad, really, but it changes things, I can tell. As a child, I knew all of my great-grandparents; I have always felt secure in the generational line-up. When I lost three grandparents within a year and a half, things shifted. One generation at a time, I keep getting bumped up the line until there will be no one left between me and death.

I am not afraid of death. I am not worried about what happens next, though I've no clear information about it, just a deep knowledge that I am loved and known. But I can't pretend it doesn't change us, to come face to face with mortality, whether it's our own or that of someone we love. In the midst of life, it's easy to ignore death, even though we all know we'll all die.

Cancer stinks. It's a rotten disease and it touches most all of us. I admire my dad's good humor and optimism as he works to kill the cancer inside him. He's actually enjoying the ride, even as he faces life's toughest questions. I don't know how you could do better than that.

BASKETBALL WARS

2010-02-01T21:39:00.000-08:00

There's something about sports I just don't get. So there we are last week at the Blazer/Jazz game in Portland . . . me and Stephen, Grace and Gloria, and two of Gloria's friends, because this was her 10th birthday celebration. Now I'm excited to be there, looking forward to the live game, prepared to whoop it up for the home boys. I like basketball. I like the Blazers. We moved to Portland during the legendary Rick Adelman days, when the Trailblazer dream team was firing up the court, led by Clyde Drexler and Terry Porter and other great players, many of whom were actually our neighbors on Bull Mountain. Those were days of Blazer mania and it was fun to join in; it was fun to win.

Well, we were doing anything but winning last week against the Jazz, who were running slick, beautiful plays, while the Blazers seemed not to know one defensive move. It didn't make for a great game, at least not for an arena full of Blazer fans. But here's the thing that bugged me: as the game went on (badly, admittedly) people got more and more worked up about what seemed such silly things. Referee calls that didn't help our losing cause, for instance. Once the entire Rose Garden booed loudly for five nonstop minutes over a ref's call. Now I know refs make bad calls sometimes, but what's the point of pouring all that negative energy out onto our own home court? I don't get that.

At another point in the game, our whole section, led by one vociferous, obnoxious fan just behind us, repeatedly chanted, "Utah sucks! Utah sucks!" I mean, that's just plain rude. It's a game, for heaven's sake, not a war.

Or maybe it is a war. I've often thought that sports is a substitute for war, especially for a generation that hasn't really experienced a massive military draft, as in World War II or even Vietnam. I guess I don't really get war, either. I recognize that there are certainly times when military action is required to defeat evil or protect freedom, but so often, it just looks to me like power games, fueled by testosterone and greed.

My kids, separated by more than a century from the Civil War, are through-and-through Union supporters. And why not? Who can argue against national unity and anti-slavery? But it always annoys me when they so matter-of-factly assume their position is superior. Because it was my ancestors--and theirs--that fought for the Confederacy, not because we were landed slave-holders trying to protect our monetary interests, but simply because those boys in blue were our own home boys. We all root for the home team.

In the temple and elsewhere, we often pray for those who are serving in our military.
And so we should. But I always whisper a prayer for the "enemy" soldiers, too. I may not agree with their position or their tactics; I may hope they lose, but every one of them has a mother and a father who worries over them, maybe a spouse and kids who pray that they will come home to them, just as we hope and pray for the safe return of our own. I pray that they all return home safely. I pray that they all just stay home and stop fighting.

So while I sit there in the Rose Garden hoping the Blazers will pull it together and beat the Jazz, I also applaud every remarkable play by the enemy team. It's a basketball game. It's supposed to be fun. I just don't get all the rabid rest of it.

ON THE ROAD

2010-01-31T17:32:00.000-08:00

I'm on the road again rolling south through California on my way to LA My dad flies into LAX from Florida tomorrow for his cancer treatment and I will pick him up along with my brother who is also flying in from Sacramento I drove today from my brother's house in Chico and am now holed up in a $40 room at the Super 8 near Bakersfield I can hear the dull whoosh of I-5 through the drawn curtains and it smells like perfumed cleaners in the room but it's safe and comfy enough for the night As I roar down the highway I listen to On the Road the cult classic of travel writing by Jack Kerouac although I wonder if that's his real name since in the book he's called Sal Paradise So which is it I really don't know but I do know because it said so in the introduction that he wrote the entire book on one scroll of paper one long paragraph without punctuation like this one that I'm writing now for a lark really just to play with the words and with your head After church in Chico this morning I headed south toward Sacramento through Marysville where I past the big pond with all the ducks and duck poop that my children and I used to walk around when we visited Aunt Margie and Uncle Wayne in nearby Yuba City Then down into the great central valley past dull industrial towns like Lodi where I didn't get stuck but did give a panhandler $5 for burgers at the McDonalds where I'd stopped to pee and Stockton Modesto and Fresno I wondered whatever happened to my friends Sandy and Carlos who moved to Modesto years ago and disappeared and as I passed Atwater I pulled up the few memories I have of living there for a few months when I was seven And then I was past the towns and driving through a low-lying fog that reminded me of Brother Child's talk at church about how he used to live in this San Joaquin valley and one day took off in his little airplane into a fog so thick he couldn't see the line on the runway and how once in the air flying blind and regretting his stupidity he had to choose between trusting the altimeter which indicated he was banking sharply right or his body which felt perfectly upright and how that's often the choice because Spirit and sense rarely share the same air Long miles ahead blue sky beckoned and I followed the power lines hundreds of them marching parallel to the road like little Eiffel towers all lined up on the shelf of a Paris souvenir shop cows bunched beneath them or sometimes sheep The hills were green with exuberant new grass blades of glory that didn't know they were recycled and simply gleamed with joy to be alive Then the hills flattened out and the road stretched on and on one long thin line in the middle of flat fields that you'd call barren if you didn't know that much of your food comes from this vast valley Dark green groves of orange trees on either side of me thick glossy and round and speckled with bright fruit Other orchards with winter-stripped limbs appeared stretching in perfect rows into infinity One kind of tree figs perhaps with thick knobby branches and top-chopped crewcuts looked like inverted pyramids stuck on trunks I laughed at sight of them and deemed them my favorite There are no towns or cities really in this long stretch of highway just makeshift oases at certain exits with gas stations and cheap motels and fast food That's where I am now and can only expect to meet other transients on my evening walk past Denny's and Motel 6 and Chevron We're all huddled on a wire for the night heads tucked warily beneath weary wings and the hum of the highway constant and alluring

MUSINGS ON MEEKNESS AND MOTHER

2010-01-24T22:28:00.000-08:00

They say . . . okay, He says . . . we're supposed to be meek. I'm not very good at meek. Or humble. Or patient, or calm, or forbearing, soft, or gentle. All peas in the same virtuous pod. However, that confessed, I've learned a lot about submission, which I'm hoping is close cousin to meekness and therefore my gateway into the realm of the meek, who, after all, shall inherit the earth.

The thing is, I love God. With passion. With complete trust. With total willingness to submit to the divine will in all things. Not that I do that perfectly, but the spirit, at least, is always willing. You can think of times, too, in your life, when you've followed that Voice, despite your fears and your good sense, and discovered yourself in a far better place than you could ever have imagined or created. God is like that, leading us down scary, surprising roads we never would have taken without that beloved Voice whispering in our ear, luring us into submission, into glory. God, He loves us so much!

But the problem I have with meekness is that it seems to demand anonymity, a sort of disappearing of self. Me, I want recognition. Acknowledgement. Appreciation. Renumeration, if you please. So it's perhaps not surprising that God has led me to become the mother of six, my work rarely recognized, acknowledged, appreciated, and certainly not renumerated. I work from behind a veil.

Somewhere I read that ancient priestesses of pagan religions were veiled in ceremony. The veil was a symbol of their power in the priesthood. I like that. I remember that when I am veiled, in ritual or in work. And I remember, too, that Mother works from behind a veil. Most Christians don't even acknowledge the female Diety. Mormons know about Her, but we don't really know Her, because She is veiled.
(And because we don't ask.) I don't know why. It used to irk me, as if someone was forcing that veil on Her. But I'm just beginning to sense the power of it, the miraculous things a person can do from behind a veil, without recognition.

I sense the power in meekness, in humility. I know the grace of submission. Maybe it's a game of semantics and I really know more than I think. Maybe I'm just full of contradictions and competing desires, like I suspect we all are. All I can think to do for now is to stop trying to rip that veil off, to be still and feel the power and potential of my priestess position. To follow that trusted Voice. To submit. To trust.

TIME

2010-01-21T21:32:00.000-08:00

Time is a big bugaboo for me. It's not that I can't figure out how to "manage" it. It's just that I never feel like a temporal-based existence is my natural world. I feel out of place in time. Temporally displaced, perhaps.

I recognize the benefits of experiencing "generations of time." We can't very well exercise agency--make choices--without time, for there would be no cause and effect. There would be nothing temporally linear, so that we could see the results of our choices and actions. And that's a valuable lesson--imperative, even.

And I see how time is a resource and that we are stewards of the time we're allotted here, just as we are stewards of all the other resources we've been given--our bodies, our opportunities, our talents. That is to say, what we choose to do with our time matters, because of how it impacts our spiritual development.

But I still don't like it. Chronos time, I mean--the linear, chronological, point-by-point sort of time that we measure our days and lives by. There are ways to break through that narrow experience of Chronos time, however, into Kairos time, sacred time. I know you've experienced it, those in-between moments, that sensation of being caught up into something Other, where time is irrelevant and there is only you and the eternal moment. Maybe you get there through yoga or meditation or prayer, as I sometimes do. Sometimes you catch a glimmer of Kairos, the "supreme moment", as the Greeks termed it, in an exalting experience of music or nature or love. And when you're there, in that moment, don't you feel like you've come Home? Don't you feel like you've arrived where you truly belong? Don't you wish the moment would never end?

But it does end, and we are sucked back into our temporal world, like when Christopher Reeves is sucked back into his own time when he pulls that penny out of his jacket pocket in the movie "Somewhere in Time." And even though we acknowledge the benefits and gifts of our current somewhere-in-time status, it still sucks to be dragged back.

It's a testy beast, time is. Generally, it gives us the impression that there's either not enough of it, or too much, depending on the day's demands and our life circumstances. Yesterday, I worked non-stop for 16 hours and still didn't finish my list. And I remember my great grandmother, ready and waiting for years to die. Too little, too much.

Or maybe it's just right. Maybe we all get exactly the amount of time we need and it's up to us to be good stewards, to reap the benefits of our wise use of time. I really am grateful to be living in a Chronos world, even though I feel like a foreigner here. I know I learn things I could not in any other setting.

And with that, it's time for bed, where dreams pull me back into Kairos . . . where I belong.

TRANSITIONS

2010-01-14T21:11:00.000-08:00

Something's off about my blog. You may have noticed I've missed posting for much of the past week. I've been mulling instead, trying to figure out what's wrong. This is supposed to be a blog about Exploration, begun as an attempt to help me weather the trauma of my return to "normalcy" after six months traveling the world. The original idea, inspired by the movie "Julia and Julie" and Ross from "Friends" was to explore new things daily and to write about them. But it feels shallow and stale to me, as I ponder blog posts, to tell you about my new salad spinner and how I had to call Genevieve to figure out how to use it, or to talk about "Avatar", the latest movie I saw. (It was excellent, by the way.)

My real explorations are going on inside. And it's pretty intense, which is more normal than not for me. The conundrum this presents is this: 1)the most intense and interesting things are often too sacred to share with you, and 2) I'm not sure you'd care to hear about it, anyway. As my son-in-law, Scott, commented to Genevieve, as he prepared to come spend Christmas with us, "I like spending time with your family, but I hope we don't spend all our time discussing deep stuff." I'm afraid you may feel that way, too. But maybe not. Maybe you, too, hunger for some deep stuff, something soul-satisfying, something to remind you that what is Real is invisible to the eye.

Here's where I am now. I don't want this to be just a recounting of the new things I do or read or eat or encounter. I want it to be more meaningful, perhaps even of service to you. I know things. Some of those things I can share, and maybe it will be helpful. Maybe it will inspire you a little. I hope so. Or maybe you'll wander off to less "deep" blogs, and that's fine, too.

I can't be deep all the time, though. It takes a lot of effort to write about the kinds of things I want to talk to you about, things you might term "spiritual." So I'm getting rid of my self-imposed goal of posting five times a week. It's too much for me, for now.

We're still exploring. But we're going to head inland for a while, inside the soul. That's where the most interesting and valuable discoveries are. I hope you'll stick with me. I have lots of questions and few answers, so I hope you'll chime in with your own discoveries, insights, and questions on the Comment board.

This is a risk for me, because to write Real means to bare myself. But I sincerely believe that the personal is always universal, that what is Real for me is Real for you, too. I'm willing to get Real. How about you?

GROUPON

2010-01-10T21:50:00.000-08:00

I recently discovered a great way to save some money on all kinds of purchases. Every day in my email inbox, I receive notice of the Deal of the Day in my area. Deals run the gamut from restaurants, to spa and health services, to retail and entertainment. You can usually save at least 50% off the regular price and the "groupons" are generally good for a year. Every day there is a new deal, good for purchase on that day only. You simply buy the ones that interest you and bypass the ones that don't.

Check it out at www.groupon.com

SINGIN' IN THE RAIN

2010-01-10T21:33:00.000-08:00

I was flipping through channels while at the beach this week and happened upon Gene Kelly singin' and dancin' in the rain with his umbrella. It looked so inviting and fun.

Not! When I tried it, singin' and skippin' down the road toward the beach, the raindrops pelted my face and the wind blew winter into all the gaps in my clothing.

I didn't have an umbrella, which was perhaps the problem.

Or it may have been a problem of love.

"I think it has something to do with love," I remembered, "the reason he's so happily melodious in the inclement weather."

So the next day, I bundled up better and braved the wintry weather once more. I still didn't carry an umbrella (umbrellas are for wimps -- and dancing props) but I did take that lovin' feelin' with me on my walk in the rain.

And you know what? It worked. I had a lovely time singin' in the rain.

NEW YEAR'S RETREAT

2010-01-04T11:08:00.000-08:00

I love Mondays and New Years. Also the first day of summer vacation and the first day of school in the fall. It's beginnings I love. There is such an energy and hope about a fresh start. All the unfinished business, the mistakes and disappointments of the previous week/year/semester fall away and we get to begin again.

I like to begin each new start with a bit of quiet and solitude, away from the daily grind. So typically, when the new year rolls around, I get away. It's a time to retreat, reflect, and renew.

So I'm off to Surfside today, at the northern tip of the Long Beach peninsula. It will be cold there in January, but there's nothing nicer than watching winter storms over the ocean from beside the fire in my bonus-time condo. I've packed two backpacks full of books and journals. I have my first-draft list of goals to refine and organize. I've carefully planned and packed food to carry on with my healthy livin'. And yes, I've got my boots for fast walks on the beach. And Season 2 of "Friends" and some yarn and a crochet hook.

My good husband mans the fort while I'm gone, for which I'm grateful. He knows he will benefit as much as I will by this set-apart time.

Even if you can't retreat totally, find a few hours to be quiet and focus on what you really want in this new year. I promise you, it's worth the effort.

And by the way, I can book anyone in the Worldmark condos on bonus time. I can see availability for two weeks ahead, and the cost is about $30-$50 per night. Contact me if you're interested.

SPIN

2010-01-03T23:10:00.000-08:00

I took my first Spin class at the gym this week. Ugh! I pedaled and pedaled for an hour and even though I gave up standing up for the "hills" every time Denise yelled, "Crank up that dial!" I didn't quit.

And you know, I actually felt great . . . about thirty minutes after class ended.

HEALTHY LIVIN' CHALLENGE

2010-01-02T21:15:00.000-08:00

Yep, it's the new year, time to get back on the wagon and live healthy. I've joined a group of women in a healthy livin' challenge, to add a little motivating competition to my efforts. You can see the details of our challenge at www.healthylivinchallenge.com.

We can earn up to six points per day, one point each for:

1) reading scripture (any amount)
2) praying
3) drinking at least 64 oz. of water
4) eating at least 5 servings of fruits and vegetables
5) consuming no junk food
6) exercising at least 30 minutes (resting 30 minutes on Sunday)

I'm two days into it and have earned 12 points already! Of course, everyone else probably has, too, so the key will be to stick to it.

I suspect you'll hear more about this as I progress. And of course I'll let you know when I win.

LA'S ORCHESTRA SAVES THE WORLD

2010-01-01T18:18:00.000-08:00

Alexander McCall Smith is one of my favorite authors. A Brit with wit, he always provides a chuckle-in-your-tea -- even the occasional pee-in-your-pants hilarious adventure in reading. So when I saw a book by him on the "New Books" shelf at the library, I grabbed it.

It's called "La's Orchestra Saves the World" and it's very different from anything else I've read by him. Set in a small village in Suffolk during War World II, it's the kind of story that whispers in your heart until you are snared unawares by its tenderness and truth. The writing in some paragraphs is so stunningly beautiful that you reread them just to hear the words again.

I don't know why, but I am always deeply moved by stories involving the British fight against Hitler during those dark years of the Blitz. I don't know a braver story. As I walked toward St. Paul's Cathedral in London with my daughters last August, recounting how the Londoners determined to save the cathedral, whatever the cost, and how they stationed soldiers in the belfry to watch for the German planes that came blazing in every night to bomb the city, I cried, like I do every time I visit this point in history. I don't even know that much about it. But something extraordinary happened in those five years in England, with Churchill chanting, "Never give in!" and the nation rallying to resist evil.

"La's Orchestra" is not really about that. It's about a girl who gets married and then unmarried and who finds a way to make a life and to contribute. But the setting is important and at least for me, incredibly moving.

Try any of Alexander McCall Smith's books. You won't be disappointed.

PARTY ON!

2010-01-01T18:12:00.000-08:00

My family and I sat down to Sunday dinner and wondered, "What shall we do this week?"

"Well, it's New Year's Eve on Thursday. Let's have a party!"

So we did. We got on the phone and invited some local families over. They came bearing goodies and game boards and we had a rollicking time.

At midnight, we all went out on the porch and waved our sparklers in the rain, shouting . . .

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

Hope you heard us, since we were shouting at you.

SOUTHEAST 9TH AND STERRETT STREET

2009-12-29T21:49:00.000-08:00

There is a neighborhood intersection in Sellwood that I always visit when I'm in the area, as we were last night. I had the girls with me and I parked the car and made them walk the four corners with me. The pavement itself is painted by the neighbors every year, and though it is a little tire-worn by this time of year, you can clearly see the bright, creative, symmetrical designs covering the entire intersection.

On one corner is the kids' playhouse. There is a gazebo with toys and books--very inviting to the younger set. Another corner harbors the teahouse, with an artistic gem-studded stone bench under another glass-topped gazebo, a clever little table to hold cups, teabags, hot water thermos, and a guestbook. The third corner has an enclosed bookshelf for the book share. Bring a book or magazine you're done with and take what interests you. And the last corner is the neighborhood information board, with notices and messages. Last night the chalkboard read: "Peace and goodwill to all in 2010."

Sellwood has a fun, funky vibe that brings out the not-so-latent hippie in me. I love the creative spirit, the love of beauty, the commitment to the earth and to peace on earth inherent in such neighborhood projects. I like to wander the streets and wonder what my life might be like if I lived there, what my journey would be like if I'd followed my hippie heart more whole-heartedly. Sometimes I think I'd do well in a commune of people devoted to the arts, to the earth, to spirituality or to political activism. As it is, I haven't the vision or the energy to do much on my own in support of such pursuits.

But I do support them. I am so glad that there are so many people in the world, many of whom are my friends, who are living out all my alternate lives for me. We make life choices and other choices disappear. That is inevitable and probably wise. So thank you to all the artists and hippies and activists, the monks and businesswomen and vagabonds who are living my dreams. I hope I am contributing to your dreams by living my own chosen life well.

Peace and goodwill to all of us.

PUPUSAS

2009-12-29T21:38:00.001-08:00

We went out to eat last night at a place in Portland called "El Palenque". We ate pupusas, a delicious Salvadorian dish involving two handmade corn tortillas stuffed with stuff. Our "pupusa rebuelta" had cheese and beans and some sort of spiced meat in it and our "pupusa chicarron" was stuffed with seasoned pork. The Salvadorian special included fried plantains with refried black beans and cream, a yummy sweet cheese bread, and a fat tamale with big chunks of vegetables.

The girls were not so brave and stuck to the Mexican side of the menu, but I thoroughly enjoyed trying some new cuisine from our neighbors in El Salvador.

Of all the things you didn't know before now, I bet pupusas never crossed your mind.

Check it out at: www.elpalenque.org

SLEEPOVER

2009-12-27T23:59:00.001-08:00

The kids came home this week, bringing the grandkids with them. Garrett and Bayra, Zach and Nate arrived with blow-up mattresses, bottles and bibs, diaper bags, sleepers, stockings, blankets, broccoli and milk. Then Genevieve and Scott, Nolan and Gavin drove up and carried in baskets of gifts, duffel bags and sleeping bags, Legos and punch. Our household of four expanded to twelve for two-plus days, and we had a ball. When they all left on Saturday, Stephen, Grace, Gloria, and I looked at each other, at a loss, wandering in the vast quiet of our house.

It's trite but true: Christmas is a time for family. Gathered around the table together, meal after meal, we all recognized our luck, the blessing of good family, the privilege of being together, of knowing there is love and support sufficient for any challenge. We talked to Gabrielle in Chile, passing the phone around like a treasure. We called Gordon in Japan, wishing him Merry Christmas in a country that doesn't give him the day off. We played games and ate too much food and stayed up late. We shared gifts and memories. We thought of those we miss. We sang "Happy Birthday" to Jesus and devoured his birthday cake. We prayed together, in gratitude for a God who deigned to come as we come, live as we live, suffer all that we suffer and more, a God who values us enough to save us from ourselves, to offer us all that he has and is.

I sincerely hope your Christmas was as sweet as ours and that the new year brings you many joyful moments, as well as interesting challenges and the strength and creativity to meet them with enthusiasm and hope.

SOUR CREAM CAKE

2009-12-27T23:48:00.000-08:00

I make this every Christmas. It's a recipe I got from my grandmother, and I'd never had this cake anywhere else until one day I visited my friend, June, and she served me up a piece and ruined my two-month sugar ban. It is an irresistible cake, worth ruining your diet for. And as it turned out, it's a good thing it's not such a family secret, since I couldn't find my well-worn recipe card this year and had to call June to get the recipe.

SOUR CREAM CAKE

1 cup butter (don't use margarine)
3 cups sugar
6 large eggs, separated
3 cups flour
1/4 tsp. baking soda
8 oz. sour cream
1 tsp. vanilla
1 tsp. almond flavoring

Heat oven to 300*. Butter and flour a 10" tube pan. Cream butter and sugar very well, about 5 minutes. Beat in egg yolks one at a time. Combine dry ingredients. Mix sour cream with vanilla and almond flavorings. Alternate adding flour mixture and sour cream mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Beat egg whites until stiff. Fold into the batter. Pour into tube pan and bake 1 1/2 to 1 3/4 hours.

Yum!

23 DECEMBER 1972

2009-12-23T23:59:00.000-08:00

The Christmas lights that evening were a shining reflection of my mood as I headed over to the church in Santa Rosa, California from my home in Sebastopol. I rode with Matt, my boyfriend and baptizer, and my family followed behind. It had been a long, emotional day, perhaps more for others close to me than for myself. I was at peace, totally confident that my dad would at last sign the permission form that would allow me to join the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints at 16 years old. My mother, a fellow Christian, understood that this was the next step for me in my walk with Christ, and had already given consent.

The missionaries called at midday to suggest, "Maybe we should wait on this."

"No. He'll come around. It will all work out as planned."

Matt called. "Do you think we ought to postpone this?"

"No. Don't worry. It's all okay. Just come get me at 6:00."

I couldn't stop smiling. This felt so right. I knew what my dad, and probably my mom too, was worried about. They thought I might be doing this for Matt, because he was a Mormon and I was a sixteen-year-old in love. Both Matt and I knew better. This was a soul-choice, my choice. I knew that what Matt and the missionaries had taught me about the gospel and about the Mormon Church was true. I knew it in the still soul spaces beyond my mind, beyond explanation, beyond this world. Once you know something like that, it never lets you go.

When we got to the church, I found that many of my LDS friends were there already. They were there to share my joy, and their support surprised and moved me. Then I saw my family walk in, dressed up as only we Southerners can do it, and my heart melted with love for them all. And there was my dad, who loves me, his face still worn with worry. But I saw traces of faith and hope there, too.

I stepped into the warm water, where Matt waited. He raised his hand, pronounced the simple, powerful words of the baptismal rite, and immersed me in the water. As I emerged into his arms, I felt as free as I have ever felt, clean, new, and ready for whatever lay ahead.

Later, Matt's father placed his hands on my head in the confirmation ritual, and said, "Receive the Holy Ghost." I had never seen this done before. The details had not been explained to me. So I did not expect that sweet rush of warmth from my head to my feet, like God moving in and taking over. He has never left. I have never asked him to.

It has been 37 years today. Every year on this important anniversary, I sink deeper into prayerful gratitude for what it has meant to me to be a Mormon. It has changed my life, in ways far beyond what I could dream of on that December evening in 1972. It is not a perfect church, because it is comprised of imperfect people. But the power is here. The truth is here. God is here.

And I am here, to stand as a witness of Christ, to walk with him wherever he leads.

THE EDGE OF LOVE

2009-12-22T23:59:00.000-08:00

It's quirky, love is. Some loves you choose, some choose you. It's the love that chooses you that is the most dangerous, the most haunting, the most promising. And the love you choose--that is how you make a life.

I was bored tonight, so I rented a movie out of the red box at Safeway, a BBC film I'd never heard of called "The Edge of Love." I chose it because it's based on the life and loves of Dylan Thomas and because I loved Keira Knightly in "Atonement" and she stars in this, too, along with Sienna Miller and Matthew Rhys. It's well done, certainly worth the $1 and the two hours.

It's the edges of love that intrigue and instruct. And aren't we all living and loving on the edge?

LIZ LEMON SWINDLE

2009-12-22T15:01:00.000-08:00

She's an artist. Does a lot of interesting pictures of Jesus. I met her once, when she came to Vancouver to do a fireside with Kenneth Cope, an LDS musician. I love her work. So when I went I went to visit Patti in Salt Lake City recently, I noticed that she had a few Liz Lemon Swindle paintings on her walls. One hung at the foot of her bed, so that it was the first thing I saw when I woke in the morning. It's a painting called "Mother" and it depicts Jesus hugging a woman from behind, his arms around her shoulders, his cheek on her hair, her hand on his encircling arm. Jesus has his eyes shut, as if he is blessing the woman. The woman--perhaps meant to be his mother, but I see her as me--squints in the light which falls full on her face, a soft smile on her lips. Pure joy and serenity. It's the way I feel when I feel the arms of Jesus around me.

I was so moved by the painting that I bought a copy while in Salt Lake City. And three others, as well. "Mother" now sits in a frame on my desk. It's right in front of me right now, a constant reminder that I am always held in the arms of Jesus, even when I'm unaware.

And so are you.

Visit www.reparteegallery.com to see Liz's work.

SINGING FOR JESUS

2009-12-20T22:33:00.000-08:00

Whew! This has been a long week of performances, almost every day. Though I loved watching my kids and grandkids perform in their various recitals and shows, what I loved best was singing for Jesus.

Last Sunday night I sang in the Vancouver East Stake choir at our Christmas Devotional. It was a lovely program, culminating in our rousing (though somewhat less than technically stellar)"Hallelujah Chorus" by Handel. We had an ice storm that day, so severe that church was cancelled, so it was especially nice to be able to gather together that evening to celebrate our Savior's birth.

On Saturday, the Portland Mormon Choir and Orchestra put on two shows. It was a 14-hour day for all of us involved, but I always experience such joy singing in such a great choir. There's nothing that stirs my soul so much as belting out "O come let us adore him" with the French horns blasting in my face (I stand right behind them), the stage lights in my eyes, like the bright star of Bethlehem, my fellow singers surrounding me in waves of praise, my awareness of the audience sharing our joy.

And this morning, I stood at the pulpit in our own chapel with my husband, daughter, and son and sang "O Come, O Come Emmanuel", inviting the Lord to come to us. Grace accompanied us beautifully on the violin, with our friend, Lana, on the organ. We are not great singers, really, but one of our deepest family pleasures is making music together. And the best music of all is when I'm singing for Jesus.

MESSES AND MERCY

2009-12-18T21:51:00.000-08:00

I am constantly cleaning up other people's messes. It aggravates me to no end. So I am usually grumbling while I'm cleaning up messes that aren't mine. Sure, I do plenty of "Get down here and get your mess cleaned up!" but still, there is always more mess, more mayhem, more aggravation.

I look to Jesus always. So the other day, while grumblingly cleaning up yet another mess that wasn't mine, I thought of Jesus' life and muttered, "Jesus never had to clean up other people's . . ."

I caught myself right away. And spent the rest of the day repenting. Because that's exactly what Jesus' life and mission were all about: cleaning up other people's messes. Mine included. And I make plenty of messes and mistakes. He cleans up after me every single day, day after day, despite my best efforts not to make a mess of my life.

This has changed my approach to the inevitable messes and mistakes of others that affect me. If I want mercy--and Lord knows I need it--I have to show mercy. I have to have a merciful heart. I come every day to the feet of my Savior with my pile of messes and mishaps. And every day, he cleans up after me. No grumbling. No begrudging. Just sweet, healing mercy.

Ah, how I love my Jesus.

THE GRANDKIDS PERFORM

2009-12-18T21:32:00.000-08:00

Wednesday night Fin and Max performed in a great abridged version of "The Nutcracker" at their Portland school, the Village Free School. Fin proved quite adept with his wooden sword, so much so that we were afraid he (the Rat King) would actually defeat the Nutcracker and they'd have to go to improv theater on the spot. Max marched around like a real live soldier and played a particularly mischievous party kid with aplomb. The Russian dancers (including Fin) did a hula-hoop routine that you'll probably never see in any other Nutcracker production. Fantastic fun!

And today Nolan nailed the role of Wise Man in his preschool Nativity performance. Because none of the actors had speaking parts, it required great skill to portray the emotion and motive of the characters. Lots of waving, grinning, and adjusting of costumes did the trick quite admirably. Nolan's jeweled headband proved to be especially intriguing to his Wise Man character, requiring much fastening and unfastening during the entire performance, ending up settling on his eyebrows with just the right rakish flair. Baby Jesus was quite impressed!

INTERNATIONAL POSTAGE

2009-12-15T11:09:00.000-08:00

I am finally finished preparing all the Christmas cards and packages to send out. What was fun this year is the number of cards we sent to international friends. Our Big Trip this year brought us into contact with some wonderful people from around the world. Some we met in person, like the Mongolian family of our daughter-in-law, Bayra. That was a very special treat, since we now claim them as family. We also met Efrem and Luciana in Verona, Italy, who so kindly let us use their second home there. And Katja and Thom in Copenhagen, whom we met at church one day and found ourselves the next day touring the city with them and having supper in their apartment with their family. And we so enjoyed staying with the Paltins family in Hamburg, whose son was our exchange student in Oregon about 15 years ago!

Others we met online, as we arranged home exchanges, but these feel like real relationships, too. Genevieve met those who stayed in our home, so we have that once-removed live connection. There is the O'Sullivan family from London, and the Goris family from Antwerp, and our Persian friends from Copenhagen, the Ghasemi family. Still others generously shared their homes with us: Louis and Nicole from Pau, France let us use their Marrakech home, and Claire and Julien rented us their beautiful Paris flat in July.

It was such fun to address Christmas cards to all our new friends from around the world. Even two of our children, Gordon and Gabrielle, required international postage. I love that the world is so small, that we are all family, that most people everywhere just want to be kind and good and happy.

Merry Christmas to all!

FIRSTS

2009-12-14T21:15:00.000-08:00

Tonight was Grace's first performance as a violinist in an orchestra. Her violin teacher put together an orchestra for Christmas and she quite enjoyed playing her part in bringing Christmas joy to the residents of a local Assisted Living facility.
She is preparing to audition for the Portland Metropolitan Youth Symphony in January, so this was good ensemble practice.

At the very same time, in another local Assisted Living facility just down the road, Gloria played four Christmas songs in her first piano recital. She did a superb job after just eight weeks of lessons.

Obviously, we had to divide and conquer tonight as parents. Not ideal, but we deal.
I heard Grace's orchestra rehearsing on Saturday, so I went to Gloria's piano recital tonight. Besides paying attention to the music and the musicians, I was busy comparing the two facilities--both very nice, by all appearances. Gloria liked the place she played at and assured me that she would check me in when the time comes. Oh, and live in the same neighborhod and come see me every day, because she reports she is going to have a big family and won't have room for me in her house. So I guess I'm all set to get old. Whew! That's a relief!

BROTHERS

2009-12-12T17:16:00.000-08:00

This week I watched two movies about brothers. One was handily called "Brothers" and the other "G-Force". I actually fell asleep during the action scenes in "G-Force" so I can't speak with any authority about that. But I did catch the sweet scenes about the brother guinea pigs finding each other again. And the ending involved a star-faced mole being swayed from his vengeful agenda by the realization that he did, indeed, have a family to belong to. All very tidy and nice.

"Brothers" ended quite untidily, but very powerfully, with Tobey McGuire's character ruminating: "I have seen the end of war. The question is, can I find a way to live again?" The movie is about two brothers, one a war hero who presumably is killed in action and who returns home with a dark secret, the other an ex-con who finds his emotional bearings by befriending his brother's wife and daughters. It is expertly cast and flawlessly acted. I like movies that explore family themes and impossible situations, and this one does just that, in a very real, grips-you-till-it-hurts way.

One warning: it's rated R for sporadic, frequent use of the "F" word and for a bit of war violence. Make your own choice, but I judged it the best movie I've seen in quite a while.

THE TRIBE

2009-12-11T22:42:00.000-08:00

My friend, Tracey, calls it your Tribe--you know, those people in the world with whom you feel you belong, with whom your spirit resonates. Finding one of your tribe is always a deeply soul-satisfying experience, like coming home to yourself.

You find them unexpectedly, because you can't predict who they are. Age makes no difference, or race or language, though it helps to be able to communicate, since that is often the way you identify another member of your tribe. Not always, though. Sometimes a look or a smile, a shared experience or even a dream will bond and bind you.

Once you have identified a member of your tribe, you belong to each other forever. Not in some creepy, Hollywood way, but for real. These are the people you instinctively trust to understand you, to cover your back, to fight on your side. You may not even know them well, but your spirit recognizes them. Some people call them "kindred spirits." That's apt, too.

I imagine I'm not the only one who often feels misunderstood and alone in a harsh world. So I am deeply grateful for the scattered members of my tribe. Knowing you are out there calms and encourages me. And I love you, too.

WITH A FLAME BURN CLEAR AND BRIGHTLY

2009-12-11T12:19:00.001-08:00

Try as I might, I couldn't get a good fire going this morning. I used all the right tools: firestarters, paper, kindling, good wood, lighter. But though it was burning, it wasn't burning hot enough to give off much heat.

I assessed the situation in consternation. I was cold. I wanted warmth. Then I remembered that just as I had opened the woodstove this morning, I briefly thought, "These ashes are too deep; I should clean this out today before I start a fire." But I didn't, deciding that it could wait a day or two more.

Now I am nursing a poor fire all day, wishing I'd done the best thing at the best time. It reminded me of a song we are singing at our Portland Mormon Choir and Orchestra concert next week called "Fum, Fum, Fum". A line towards the end goes: "Oh let the night shine lightly. With a flame burn clear and brightly . . ." We sing that last line over and over, terracing the dynamics, adding voices and notes until it finally bursts into a full-voiced, joyous flame of song.

And I thought about the ashes I allow to gather too long in my soul, stunting my attempts to burn clear and brightly, my fire dim and hard to maintain. It seems such a simple thing, to do the best thing at the best time--before problems ensue--but the moments come and go sometimes without our attentive notice.

At the very next opportunity, when my little fire dies down and all is still and cold, I am going to clean out my ashes.

HARD CHOICES

2009-12-09T22:28:00.000-08:00

My pillow's name is "Choices", according to its packaging. One side is soft and fluffy and the other is made of some sort of gel or whatever they use in temperapedic mattresses. I like that side usually, because it molds itself to my head and gives great support.

Except when it's cold. It has been very cold here lately and my bedroom is the coldest room in the house. We heat with wood, but we're too lazy to get up and keep the fire going all night, so we wake up to a 46 degree house. And that's in the warm part, where the thermostat is. I don't know how cold it is in my bedroom, but it feels like camping. Tucked up in my bed, my nose is cold.

But the bed is nice and warm. I'm telling you, heated mattress pads are the best thing ever! You would think the heat would soften up that gel or whatever it is in the choicest side of my pillow. But no, it is as hard as a plank. It actually makes me laugh, it is so unlike a pillow. So I flip it over to the soft side, but right through the fluff, I can feel that plank. Either side, a hard choice.

I toss Choices on the floor, and substitute my huggy pillow for my head. Not my first choice, but I'm sleeping fine.

PUEDO LEER EN ESPANOL--MAS O MENOS

2009-12-09T21:47:00.000-08:00

I'm trying to learn Spanish. I studied it for a couple of years in high school, but that was oh so many moons ago. I would really like to be at least semi-fluent in a second language. I'm good at English. So surely I could be at least so-so at Spanish, wouldn't you think?

To that end, last year I read the Book of Mormon (El Libro de Mormon) in Spanish. For the first 100 pages or so, I had to read with both the Spanish and English translations open in my lap. But then I got to a point where I could read it in Spanish without constantly checking the translation and actually understand it pretty well. And finally, towards the end of the book, I could read and understand enough to even feel the Spirit at times.

I bought some "Learn Spanish" books, too, and tried to be disciplined about studying every day. That didn't work too well too long, though I did retain a vague recollection of verb conjugations. I also took a community education class for a term. We met in a classroom at Washougal High School and the best part about the class was the opportunity it afforded to speak and listen in Spanish. Then, when we were in Guatemala last April, I had 2 weeks of one-on-one instruction--four hours every day. That intense studyincreased my vocabulary and improved my listening comprehension quite a bit and my speaking ability a little bit.

Now I am reading Doctrine and Covenants (Doctrina y Convenios) in Spanish and writing Gabrielle each week in Spanish, which I'm sure is pretty laughable on her end in Santiago, Chile, but it's good practice for me, anyway. I also bought "Eclipse" by Stephenie Meyer in Spanish, but that's going to be slow going. I started it one day last week and realized I'm going to have to start this the same way I did the Book of Mormon, with both texts in front of me. I heard the movie is being released next June, so that's my goal, to finish before the movie comes out.

I'm telling you so you can keep me accountable. And if you speak Spanish, por favor, me ayuda!

GETTING A JOB . . . OR NOT

2009-12-07T15:41:00.000-08:00

Now that Grace and Gloria are in school most days, I have more time. So I thought maybe I should get a job. I have mulled this for years, actually. There's the guilt to weigh--about never having supported myself financially. The guilt itself is useless, but it's there, nonetheless. Then there are the logistical and spiritual ramifications: how much time per week do I want to spend working for someone else? what about my creative pursuits? how will my kids and grandkids be affected? what about my travel addiction? how can I find meaningful, fulfilling, part time work? why should I take a good job from someone else who really needs it?

As you can surmise, this kind of round-and-round thinking severely limits my pursuit of employment. But one day, I was in the bank, the bank I've been with for over 30 years, and the bank lady was helping me link some accounts. She was diddling around on the computer while I watched, and it looked like so much fun (I like to diddle around with electronic money, too)that I commented, "Your job looks like fun! Do you like it?"

She replied, "I have degrees in Criminal Justice and Psychology and I never thought I'd end up working in a bank, but I absolutely love my job. There's a part time job open at this branch. You should apply."

Full of that blazing passion that fuels so many of my impulsive moves, I began to fill out the online application form. Later that day, I learned that my daughter-in-law, sole earner in her family at the moment, had lost her job and needed a new one.
She is an accountant with years of bank experience. I looked at her resume, then at mine (laughable) and decided right away not to hire me. Or even to apply. I figured I had learned of the job for Bayra's benefit.

We are still waiting to hear if the bank will hire Bayra. Prayers are welcome.

HOOD RIVER

2009-12-07T14:23:00.000-08:00

My friend, June, gave me a wonderful gift last week. She works for the Rogue Valley Water District and they have an annual conference in Hood River, Oregon every year, just across the state line (the river) in the Columbia River Gorge. She invited me to come stay in her hotel room with her for three nights during the conference. It was glorious.

I enjoyed one long day of doing nothing, then another wandering the town without agenda or timetable. I did all the puzzles in the newspaper every day and watched home shows on TV and cooking shows and an HBO movie. I hung the "Do not disturb" sign on the door and stayed in my pajamas until I got so hungry I had to go foraging for food at 3:00 in the afternoon. The first day, I only made it one floor down to the hotel restaurant, got a salad to go, and ate it in the room. The next day, I ventured into town to the Three Rivers Inn and gorged on artichoke soup, crab cakes, beet salad, and creme brulee.

June was pretty involved in her conference, so I saw little of her, but the evenings were great fun--a slumber party with my best friend. It was the perfect combination of solitude and friendship.

By the way, Hood River is the windsurfing capital of the world, so if you're up to zipping wildly across river waves on a little board, with what appears to be very little control of velocity or direction, then falling into very cold water while trying not to get bonked on the head or draped in a sail, come on over. I'll watch.

SOLITUDE

2009-12-07T14:05:00.000-08:00

I'm alone in the house now. I don't speak. I don't have music on. There's no sound except the ticking of the clock, the whirring of the woodstove fan, and the occasional rattling of the windows on this blustery day.

I have a numbered task list for today and I do each thing slowly, with mindfulness and enjoyment. I have just one more hour before my peace is shattered by the return of school children. My anxiety level rises as the minute hand moves around the face of the clock.

It's not that I don't like the company of my family. I do. But there is something built into me that cries for solitude. And lots of it. I've always been like this, so it must be inate, not simply the result of 30+ years of active parenting. When I was nine years old, I read a book about a hermit and told my mother, in relieved glee, that I had finally discovered what I wanted to be when I grew up: a hermit.

Sometimes I go out to the monastery in Lafayette, Oregon for a few days of focused solitude. It restores my soul as I look inward and upward. I could live like that.

Some days are gifts of peace -- like this one. I treasure my few hours of solitude and try to use them to prepare to better serve.

And now, on to the next task, which, happily for you, is the next blog post.

Peace to you.

MAEVE BINCHY

2009-12-01T14:42:00.000-08:00

I was at the gym one day and saw a book in the pass-along pile by Maeve Binchy called "Glass Lake." I really didn't know the author, though I had her lumped in with authors I have thus far refused to read, like Nora Roberts and that Collins gal.
But I needed a new novel, so I took it home and read it.

She's an Irish author, and the book is set in Ireland, which is what made it such an enjoyable read. On our round-the-world trip, Ireland was one of my favorite spots. I love it when a book can evoke a place so beautifully, so that you feel you are there again. It's pure escapism--lovely, heady, nostalgic.

Binchy develops some strong characters in the story and you care what happens to them, even though there's not really much plot. It's a slow, slice-of-life sort of story, similar to Rosamund Pilcher's work, for instance. It's not a page-turning thriller, though once you're pulled into the life of Lough Glass, it's hard to come back to your own. Those kinds of books are nice, because you can read as fast or as slow as you want, since you're not reading for story as much as character and place.

I'd read another of hers, if I saw one lying around. I'm not sure I'll go look her up at the library--there are SO many good books that I haven't yet read--but if it sounds like your kind of tale, give her a go.

JAKE'S GRILL

2009-12-01T14:29:00.000-08:00

Girls' lunch: Monday, 30 November 2009

Diners: Lisa, June, Sue, Genevieve, Bayra, Bethany

Restaurant: Jake's Grill

Location: in the Hotel Governor on the 600 block of SW 10th Avenue in Portland

Menu: good selection of American food

Examples:
roasted beet salad with goat cheese and candied pecans,
French dip
sirloin, garlic potatoes, green beans (the Blue Plate special)
three-cheese macaroni
crusted mahi-mahi

Prices: excellent value; we all ordered entrees for under $10

Ambience:
warm, cozy, dark wood and brass, beautiful old building with perfect upgrades

Social report:
Fun! Old friends and family join in catching up and planning ahead.

Advice:
Yes, Try Jake's Grill. We meant to eat at the Culinary School, but it was closed, so we chose this because it was there. Good choice. Great food. Excellent value. Call me and I'll meet you there next time.

SEATTLE

2009-11-29T23:13:00.000-08:00

It was our first family trip since the Big Trip. We drove to Seattle on Friday and stayed downtown in the Red Lion Inn for two nights, a block from Westlake Mall. When we arrived, Macy's was shooting fireworks off the top of the store, just next to our hotel. The streets were thronged with holiday celebrants, and it took us over an hour to negotiate the six blocks from the freeway to the Red Lion. It wasn't much fun for Stephen, who was managing the slow crawl through traffic, but we three queens had a ball watching all the hullabaloo through the car windows.

It was great fun to be right in downtown Seattle, especially at the beginning of the festive Christmas season. We enjoyed strolling the streets, meandering through the malls, watching the lights (and marathon runners) through our hotel window. We visited Pike Place Market, of course, and walked down to the Olympic Sculpture Park and to the Safeco Field. I forgot to take my camera on our jolly jaunts, so you'll have to imagine . . . a clear, crisp, almost-Christmas day in Seattle. Lovely.

I went to see "New Moon" one night at Pacific Place Mall. (Movie review: better than "Twilight", flat acting, decent effects.) Grace grumbled mostly, I suppose because she's twelve; Gloria loved Pike Place and the hotel TV (we don't have TV); and Stephen worked on his Christmas letter (do we have your address?)

Seattle has a great vibe about it. Even though Portland is still my favorite city, Seattle has an unpretentious verve and variety that I always so enjoy.

GIVING THANKS

2009-11-27T11:08:00.000-08:00

I'm sure you made a list, too, for Thanksgiving.

Here's mine--or at least the beginning of it:

hot running water (always top of the list--my favorite luxury)

the gospel of Jesus Christ (well, you know this is really tops)

family--the ones I get to live with, raise, know

family--the dead ones, to whom I owe so much

words

music

my body, which, despite its weaknesses, serves me well

sunshine!

natural beauty

my wonderfully comfortable bed

opportunity

enough money

vehicles for travel

revelation

prayer

church

friends

I could go on and on. Sometimes I do, in my prayers, and I never run out of things I thank God for. For He is the source of all the goodness in our lives. Gratitude is the best bad-mood-buster I know of.

So as I pack the car for our weekend trip to Seattle, while trying not to heed my 12-year-old's rantings about how her life sucks because we travel too much, I will continue to count my blessings. . .

the sun is out today

our woodstove keeps us toasty

my piano was recently tuned

my cold is much better today

I didn't ruin the turkey yesterday

leftovers!

. . . . . . . . . .

BECAUSE I'M CRYING

2009-11-27T11:03:00.000-08:00

Three-year-old Zachary cries when he's upset.

"I am crying," he announces helpfully, between tears.

"Zach, why are you crying?"

"Because I'm sad."

"Why are you sad?"

"Because I'm crying!"

Makes perfect sense to me.

CHRISTMAS CONCERT INVITATION

2009-11-25T19:20:00.000-08:00

Comfort & Joy

December 19th - 2pm & 8pm

Skyview High School Auditorium
1300 NW 139th St.
Vancouver, WA 98685

Join the Portland Mormon Choir & Orchestra for its annual Christmas celebration. You'll experience the journey to Bethlehem, stand in awe with the shepherds and wisemen and sing Hallelujahs as with the choirs of angels. A Christmas tradition not to be missed!

That's the blurb. This is the choir I sing in. We are very good. You will absolutely love this concert.

To get tickets, visit: www.portlandmormon.org

P.S. We are so good, we usually sell out, so don't delay. You can also get tickets from me.

HERMANA GARFIELD

2009-11-24T23:10:00.000-08:00

Our daughter, Gabrielle, is serving a church mission in Santiago, Chile. It is such fun to read her weekly updates and to see how she is growing in the Lord. This will be her first Christmas away from home, so if you're so inclined, send her a card. I will tell you how below.

But first, some excerpts from recent letters:

"Sometimes, as you know, people on the street try to talk to me in english. Most of the time they are being stupid. The other day we were walking along and passed by three guys. "Very beautiful!", one of them said. We continued on. "Are you married?", they shouted. "I love you!!" I turned around and they were blowing me kisses. Hahaha this time it just made me laugh because they were harmless. Now whenever someone tries to talk to me and give me a hard time I say under my breath to Hna Bran "Yes, I´m married!" bahaha. But later this same day some guy wanted to talk to us-- he was probably drunk-- but he told us he has like four Books of Mormon and all this stuff. Oh man but he was such a creeper. "Qué puedo hacer para llegar a ella?" he asked my companion. "What can I do to get to her?" Que horror....my companion told him I have a boyfriend waiting for me. Hahaha! Not true, just so you all know. Sometimes it´s better to tell a fib rather than land yourself in a pickle. He kept looking at me and making comments like, wow, how pretty. Bleh! Anyway, we were about to leave and this is what went down...."Bye, Brother", my companion said. "No, I´m not your brother, I´m your friend" he responded. And then he leaned in all close to my face and said "A friend with benefits!" ....oh my word I almost died. All I can say is I´m glad I knew that phrase in spanish-- I understood immediately so I didn´t resort to my routine of what I do when I don´t understand, which is usually nod. Cripes! And yesterday we ran into a SUPER drunk guy who tried to talk to us. I´ve never seen anyone so drunk in my life. These wacky mission experiences!"

"What a great idea, to come on a mission! It changed my life, I´m sure of it, and I´m not even halfway done. Oh man. I was thinking a lot about this this week. How wonderful these experiences are. I´m more sure than ever that this really is the path home, and by that I mean the path back to our Heavenly Father. How merciful He is, to provide this plan for us, so that we can find peace and security in this life and eternal happiness in the world to come. It´s up to us, however, to find out for ourselves and stir up the resolution to follow Jesus Christ in all things."

I'm so proud of Gabby. A mission does change lives, not only for those who accept the gospel through her teaching, but for the missionary herself. Gabby is deeper, stronger, and much more sure of herself and her place in the world. To get out of ourselves and into serving others works magic every time.

This is a good time of the year for all of us to look beyond our own concerns, to reach out to others who are seeking the gifts only we can offer. You can be a light and a comfort to someone else. Go on: change a life today. Maybe yours.

HERE'S HOW TO SEND GABRIELLE A CARD, LETTER, OR PACKAGE:

1) Go to http://www.dearelder.com/ and choose the Chile Santiago East Mission from the dropdown list. Choose "write a letter" then write "Gabrielle Garfield" in the recipient space, type your note, and click "Send." They will print out your letter and send it to Gabby, at no cost to you.

2) Use the pouch mail service in Salt Lake City. They can only accept a single 8.5" x 11" sheet of paper folded in thirds and taped. No envelopes. The address is: Hermana Gabrielle Garfield, Chile Santiago East Mission, POB 30150, Salt Lake City, UT 84130-0150. This costs you one US stamp and they will send it down in a mail pouch to the mission office.

3) Send cards, letters, or packages straight to the mission office in Santiago: Hermana Gabrielle Garfield, Chile Santiago East Mission, Pedro de Valdivia 1423, Providencia 29, Santiago 29, Chile.

Thanks for brightening the holiday season for a faithful missionary!

BE PREPARED

2009-11-21T21:22:00.000-08:00

Last night at our family potluck, we packed (or repacked) our 72-hour kits. These are small backpacks filled with warm clothes, food and water, and emergency supplies such as radio, flashlight, thermal blankets (those little silver foil things), first aid and sanitary supplies, rope, whistles, and of course, a deck of cards and hard candy. We hope we never have to use them. But if we ever need to evacuate quickly, we will be prepared to survive for three days. If we have time and the roads are passable, we'll toss all our camping gear in the car and be even more comfortable.

I don't worry about disasters. I don't sit around stewing about dooms-day scenarios or end-of-the-world "judgments." And I think it's because we're prepared. Not fully, but enough to be at peace. As the scriptures say, "if you are prepared, you shall not fear." And that's true.

The conditions and circumstances of our world can change in a moment. Think September 11th. Or December 7th. Or the Chicago Fire. Or the San Francisco earthquake. The Galveston Hurricane or Katrina. Think downsizing, banks closing, jobs lost. Natural disasters, stock market crashes, and acts of war are generally not announced before they happen. And though we in the United States have been lulled into a perhaps false sense of security by our long years of peace in our own land, things can change so fast we'll have no time to prepare. So the time to prepare is now.

Like Egypt in the days of Joseph, we may very well be in the last years of plenty before the years of famine or war or depression hit hard. It's just good sense to get ready: store some extra food, stash some cash, stay healthy in mind, body, and spirit.

My son and his family are living on the food they've stored while they wait for employment. This could be you. It could be me. There's no sense worrying about it. Just make a plan and get going. There is peace is being prepared.

TO BOLDLY GO WHERE NO ONE HAS GONE BEFORE

2009-11-19T19:50:00.000-08:00

I watched the new "Star Trek" movie on DVD last night. It wasn't a great movie, but I do like that line: "to boldly go where no one has gone before." Doesn't your life feel like that sometimes, like you're traveling in unexplored territory, without map or compass? Maybe you don't feel so bold, but there you are, boldly going, nevertheless.

Birthing a baby or raising a child feels like that. Even though you keep telling yourself, "Millions of people have done this before, so I can do it, too" there are moments when you're not sure you CAN do it. Not sure you even WANT to do it, despite the clear choices you've already made to be right where you are now.

Young Captain Kirk found himself in such a pickle last night, albeit with perhaps more immediate danger and less tedium than birthing or parenting. Still, similarities abound: you can't predict the outcome; there may be casualties; it's dang scary; the manual is useless.

At the Star Fleet Academy, young Spock designed a simulation that was presumably unsolvable. The objective of the simulation was to test how a cadet would respond to fear in the face of unavoidable death. Kirk, of course, solved the unsolvable by rewriting the game.

Sometimes all you can to win, or to simply survive, is to rewrite the game. Toss out the rules and do it your way, the way that works for you. Who's got time for fear? Just boldly go . . .

See you in space.

THE NEW FAMILY SEARCH

2009-11-18T22:03:00.001-08:00

Don and Lou came over today to teach me some new tricks about family history. In my BK (before kids) days, I did quite a lot of genealogical work and really enjoyed it. Since it appears that I may never reach the AK (after kids) stage of life, I figured I'd better gear up now to continue my family history work.

Boy, have things changed since the '70s! I did know about http://www.familysearch.org/, so I thought I was all cool and prepared when Don and Lou showed up and I was already logged in, ready to learn. The first thing I learned was that I was working at an already obsolete site and that I should be at http://www.new.familysearch.org/.

They were right. What a cool site! As the only LDS member of my family, I have always presumed it was all up to me to complete the work for my family. So I did not expect to find any of my people in the church genealogical database other than those that I myself had submitted. And at the old site, the obsolete familysearch site, that seemed to be true. But not here! Once I got far enough back in time, I did find some of my family THAT SOMEONE ELSE HAD SUBMITTED. I suddenly felt far less alone. And though I still have tons to learn about how to work the site, it seems easy to use.

Of course, the new family search site is not just for Mormon genealogists. It's for anyone interested in family history. You may be as surprised as I was today to find some of your own people there. Living people do not appear, so only look for your dead ancestors.

I have been hankering to get back to family history work for quite some time. I knew that all it would take would be one little push, someone to teach me just enough to get started again. Thanks to Don and Lou, I foresee many happy hours ahead unraveling family history mysteries, piecing people together, forging family links that span the eternities.

APPRECIATING TREES

2009-11-17T10:28:00.000-08:00

I've mentioned before how much I like to look at trees. I also like to burn them. So today I'd like to honor all the trees that have given their life substance so that I can be warm.

We put in a woodstove last year, part of our ongoing attempt to live self-sufficiently. We've heated other homes with wood heat, but that was when we were young and spry and it was fun to swing a hatchet like Davy Crockett, making kindling of big, tall trees. It's not so fun anymore. In fact, I've become quite the wimp--or the supportive wife, as I like to view it. Now I just holler, "Honey, we need more kindling." And voila, sooner or later, kindling appears in the recycling-bin-turned-woodbox.

We've got some good wood this year. It burns hot, so hot we end up stripping off clothes and basking in the waves of heat coming from the corner of the living room. We angle for the best seat, the one nearest the fire, where we take turns curling up with a book and/or a pillow.

Ah, to be warm! It's a luxury I sincerely appreciate. So here's to trees, those beautiful, generous, life-giving flora. Go hug one today.

GREEN SMOOTHIES

2009-11-16T17:41:00.001-08:00

My latest food thing is green smoothies. Yum! Patti inspired me when I was in Salt Lake, so I've been making green smoothies almost every day since I've been home. They are packed with good stuff and they taste delicious.

You can put whatever you want in a smoothie. The thing about green smoothies is that they include green stuff: spinach (my favorite--it has a sweet, mild flavor), collard greens, beet greens, any leafy greens. So if you don't like that kind of superfood in its leafy form, you can drink the nutrition! I happen to love all the leafy green foods, but I don't actually prepare them very often. Partly because my kids are not huge fans. But they love these smoothies!

Patti uses a Magic Bullet to prepare her smoothies. I've used that little processing wand you stick in the tall cup, which works fine, though if you have frozen fruit in there, prepare to work a bit. I was in Costco the other day and watched the demo of the Blendtec blender--the one with the jet engine that can mush metal (so they say, but who would want to eat metal?) I was tempted, of course, but reasoned that I should first wear out the plain old $20 Hamilton Beach blender I have at home before I drop $380 on a fancy gizmo. So this morning, that's what I used, and it worked great.

Here's what I usually put in my green smoothie:

as much spinach as will fill about 2/3 of the container
a few big strawberries
a handful or two of blueberries
half a banana
half an apple, maybe
some fruit juice, if I have any
a bit of Agave liquid sweetener
about 1/4 cup of chia seeds soaked in water
water, if it's too thick

Toss it all the blender, whirl away and voila! Instant power breakfast.

Google "chia seeds" to learn about this amazing little seed, packed with omega-3's, protein, fiber, and lots of great nutrients. Patti taught me to soak them in a jar of water overnight, then keep them in the fridge to use in smoothies.

Oh, now I want one! Don't you?

MILAGRO

2009-11-15T22:12:00.001-08:00

We have two cats, Kiki and Binky. About a month ago, Kiki just disappeared. It was very sad, and though we called him every day ,and checked the sides of the roads and the neighboring properties, and even the local Humane Society, there was no sign of him. Lots of cats disappear here in the country, prey to cat-eaters. So we mourned his loss and loved Binky extra hard because she was clearly missing her brother cat companion.

Last Wednesday, as Garrett was driving Grace to her violin lesson, she spotted a FOUND CAT sign about a mile down the road. She called me right away and swore that the picture on the poster was our cat, Kiki. Though it seemed highly unlikely, I called the phone number given and left a message.

Later that evening, the phone rang and both Grace and I picked up a receiver. Grace answered because the caller ID indicated it was her friend Rachael calling. I was just hoping to hear about our cat. As it turned out, it was indeed Grace's friend Rachael, the only family we know on that side of the road--one mile south and quite far back off the road--who had found a black cat. Still not believing it could be Kiki, we zoomed down the hill and YES, it was indeed our poor, battered cat. He had a wound on his shoulder and was limping and he felt like a bag of bones when I picked him up. But oh, was he happy to see us!

I wonder what sort of adventures he's had this past month. Clearly, he has suffered. But he is fattening up nicely, limping far less, and hardly straying from the garage. I often find Binky and Kiki curled up in their beds atop the book boxes, just like in the old days, the days before Kiki lost his way.

I'm calling him Milagro, Spanish for "miracle".

The lesson: never lose hope. The unbelievable is always possible.

SPONSOR A PAKISTANI STUDENT

2009-11-14T21:29:00.000-08:00

When Brother King talks about his homeland of Pakistan, he speaks with pride and with concern. He is particularly concerned that the young people do not have adequate opportunities for higher education and for employment.

Pakistan is a very poor country. Most simply cannot afford college or skills training. Though the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints has in place a Perpetual Education Fund to help those in poorer countries attend college, this program is not yet operational in Pakistan. Brother King, during his lecture in the Church Office Building, pointedly asked that if any in the audience had any ideas about how to address this ongoing problem in Pakistan, that we please share.

Tracey and Patti and I left the lecture in brainstorm mode. Why couldn't we sponsor some students in Pakistan, so that they could attend college and prepare themselves to contribute meaningfully to their country? It was a theoretical conversation, until . . .

. . . until we "accidentally" ran into Brother and Sister King on the 24th floor, just outside the women's bathroom. None but God can plan these serendipitous events. Sister King is a nurse, so we asked, "How much does it cost to complete nursing school in Pakistan?"

"It costs about $40 per month for three years."

Tracey piped up, "If you will identify a person who will commit to nursing school for the three-year training, I will provide the funds."

So simple.

"Me too," I chimed in. "Find another student who has the will and the commitment to complete a college-level education, and I will sponsor him or her. I don't care if it's nursing school; I'll take any student who wants to attend college or a skills training program. Oh, and if you can, find me a young woman. I really believe a key component of the battle against poverty is to educate girls and women."

By this time, we could see Brother King's wheels a-turnin'. He told us about a young man who lives with his widowed mother in extreme poverty who has managed to attend one year of a technical school, but who still has two more years to complete his training. We watched Brother King run through a mental list of those he knew within the Church who would really make something of such a gift.

$40 a month for three years is so doable for most of us. It's hard to believe that such a small gift could make such a life-saving difference to a person, to a family, to a nation. But it can. And you can help.

If you would like to sponsor a Pakistani student so that he or she can attend college or a training program for three years, please email me at lisagarfield@comcast.net. Brother and Sister King are working to identify young people they believe have the desire and the drive, but not the money, to get a higher education. At this point, we are looking only within the membership of the LDS Church, because we can better monitor what happens to your money. We will make sure every cent you give gets to the right place and the right person. When the Perpetual Education Fund becomes operational in Pakistan, our little program will likely no longer be needed. But in the meantime, YOU can make a difference. All it takes is a bit of compassion, a little sacrifice, and a commitment to help lift another to a life he or she can only dream of without you.

I'll be looking for your email: lisagarfield@comcast.net

A PAKISTANI PERSPECTIVE

2009-11-12T21:38:00.000-08:00

To better appreciate the freedoms we take for granted as Americans, you might want to talk to Brother and Sister King, the first Mormon converts in Pakistan. Here are some of the things I learned from them when I visited with them in Salt Lake City. They had come to Utah to visit their first grandbaby and were invited to share their experiences (as Mormons in Pakistan, not as new grandparents) with some employees in the Church Office Building. Since Tracey and I were tagging along with Patti that day, we had the unique opportunity to attend their lecture. Afterwards, we met them by chance in the hall upstairs, had a lovely chat, and bonded as family in Christ.

*To attend church, you must travel at least an hour one way, standing in a very hot, smelly bus; then you get to do it all over again to go home. And of course, you pay for the rides, no small sacrifice in a country this poor.

*The church is guarded by two armed security officers, who stand outside the doors and monitor everyone who enters.

*There are two main religious groups in Pakistan: Christians and Muslims, and increasingly, the Taliban faction. The Christians are in general the poorer class of people. It is a capital offense for a Muslim to change their religion, so Mormon missionaries, as well as other Christian missionaries (I suppose) do not proselytize amongst the Muslims.

*Despite this circumstance, there are now 10 branches of the Mormon church in Pakistan. The area is part of the New Delhi Mission, which poses a lot of problems whenever Pakistan is at odds (read: war) with India, which is usually.

*The Bible and the Book of Mormon are translated into Urdu, but very little else, so only those with a command of English can teach lessons, which must be translated from the English manuals by the teacher and communicated to the members in Urdu.

*The economy in Pakistan is especially grim. There is no work for the young, even the educated and able.

*The Perpetual Education Fund, a humanitarian fund administered by the LDS Church that loans money to those who could not otherwise obtain higher education, is not yet operational in Pakistan.

Stay tuned tomorrow for how you can help.

HAIL TO OUR VETERANS

2009-11-11T22:09:00.000-08:00

I know I said I'd tell you about Brother and Sister King today, but I need, instead, to pause to thank our veterans and those who are currently serving in the U.S. military. I am perhaps the most grateful pacifist ever. Right this minute, there are people sacrificing time, comfort, and sometimes their lives to protect the freedoms we, as a fledgling nation, fought so hard to win in the first place. It's not a perfect country. But I've just been around the world, traveling outside of my nation, for six months, and I will tell you this: the United States of America is still the best country in the world. That is not idle talk nor insignificant status. We are a coveted Land of Dreams for millions around the world. Our military helps make that so.

I attended a little Veterans' Day program at Gloria's elementary school yesterday. I sat between a grandpa in a Navy hat and another veteran of World War II. I belted out the patriotic songs with full fervor, and could not stop crying when all the veterans stood and we clapped and clapped in gratitude. When we said the Pledge of Allegiance together, something we adults rarely get to do anymore, I meant every word. When the flag went by, I bowed my head.

I don't really know why it affected me so. I had the same reaction at the patriotic program on Sunday when I attended "Music and the Spoken Word" in Salt Lake City. For all our grumbling and griping about government, today is a good day to remember what we as a nation have accomplished. And what it has cost.

These are some of the people I know--family and friends--who have served or are now serving our country. Please forgive any unintentional omissions; my thanks and my prayers are for all of you:

Alan Meadows, my father Air Force
Uncle Wayne Phillips Air Force
Elwin Garfield Navy
Justin Davis Air Force
Mitchell Johnson Air Force
Vance Smith Air Force (killed in action in WWII)
Keegan Campbell Navy
E.C. Holden Army
Hailee Holden Army
Chris Adams Marines

THANK YOU

A VIEW FROM THE CHURCH OFFICE BUILDING

2009-11-10T09:44:00.000-08:00

I visit Utah fairly frequently because Stephen's family lives there and because my kids go to college at BYU. But I very rarely stay in Salt Lake City. This time, I traveled with my Portland friend, Tracey, and we stayed with our Salt Lake City friend, Patti, who lives just up the hill from Temple Square, by the capitol building. I could look out her window at the twinkling lights of the city of the center of Mormondom. It was a unique and exhiliarating trip.

I spent the weekend with people who work for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Patti works on church internet projects, Matt works in real estate, and Jennifer works with big-money donors to the humanitarian fund. I talked with the managing editor of the Ensign magazine on the observation deck of the Church Office Building. I met several people in the Curriculum department and was given a copy of the brand new manual for 2010. Tracey, a business coach, had a meeting with church executives to discuss leadership training for church employees. It was eye-opening and incredibly exciting to see how the Lord is working at the top administrative levels of His church to provide what we need. Sure, there are corporate challenges, but the whole atmosphere in the Church Office Building is unlike any you experience in any other office building. It felt like they have captured the essence of how to be in the world, and yet not of it.

Of course, there is even more important and exciting work going on in the ecclesiastical branch of church leadership. But what I experienced this weekend was a peek at the nitty-gritty, our grand theology put into practice for the benefit of not only church members, but all the world's people, all of whom we recognize and love as family.

Tomorrow I will tell you about Brother and Sister King, the first church converts of Pakistan.

LET THERE BE PEACE ON EARTH

2009-11-09T21:42:00.001-08:00

I am in Salt Lake City, Utah and yesterday I went to the tabernacle on Temple Square to hear "Music and the Spoken Word." Maybe you've heard it or seen it; it's the world's longest continuing network broadcast show. They've been broadcasting these for over 81 years, but this is the first time I've attended. This was show number 4,182 and because Veteran's Day is this week, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and the Orchestra at Temple Square prepared a patriotic show that was really moving.

Veteran's Day was originally called Armistice Day and was meant to be a day dedicated to the cause of world peace. I like these spoken words yesterday:

"If turmoil and conflict have any worth, it may be that they can help us value and remember those who have sacrificed for peace." (Lloyd Newell, the narrator of the program)

And these words by Richard L. Evans: "Peace is a positive and not merely a passive thing. It is more than the absence of war. It is a way of life, an attitude, and an inner condition."

I wish I could recreate for you here on the page the spirit in the room as the choir sang "This is My Country," "America the Beautiful," and "Salute to the Armed Forces." The organ pumped us up with Sousa's "The Thunderer" and then choir and orchestra performed John William's powerful piece, "Hymn to the Fallen." That was my favorite -- haunting, reverent, rich.

And the final number--the one we sang back in the 70's, holding hands, swaying back and forth:

Let there be peace on earth
And let it begin with me.
Let there be peace on earth
The peace that was meant to be.
With God as our Father
We are family;
Let us walk with each other
In perfect harmony.

Let there be peace on earth,
Let this be the moment now.
With every step I take
Let this be my solemn vow:
To take each moment
And live each moment
With peace eternally.
Let there be peace on earth
And let it begin with me.

Peace: let it begin.

GAY MARRIAGE

2009-11-05T22:10:00.000-08:00

It seems such a silly debate. A war of semantics.

Here is what our new law school graduate proposes, and I agree:

Marriage is a peculiar institution where church and state still intersect. Thus the mess. I propose the state allow civil unions between any two consenting adults, with all the legal rights and privileges apertaining thereunto. Each church can define marriage according to the dictates of their own conscience, and perform, sanction, and recognize marriages according to their own rules.

Mormons already have something like this in place, with civil marriages recognized by the church as legitimate, but not eternal. Only marriages performed in Mormon temples are considered to be eternal.

I could elaborate, but that's it in a nutshell. A simple, graceful solution.

What do you think?

THE SOLOIST

2009-11-04T14:52:00.000-08:00

I just watched a movie called "The Soloist" about a gifted cello player (Jamie Foxx) who goes from attending Juilliard to living on the streets of Los Angeles. An L.A. Times staff writer (Robert Downey, Jr.) discovers him playing a two-stringed violin on a street corner. The movie explores their relationship and particularly, the relationship between mental illness (in this case, schizophrenia) and homelessness.

It's easy to make judgments about people who live on the streets, wondering where their families are, why they aren't caring for them. But it's not that easy. My friend's brother, also a gifted string player, has schizophrenia. He also has a strong family support system. But with mental illness, that doesn't always seem to make much difference. Maybe it does -- I believe it does -- but it's not always readily apparent in the lives of those who suffer from such illness. In the movie, the writer effects a reunion between the homeless cellist and his perfectly functional sister, who had no idea where her brother was. It's unutterably sad to me to hear of families separated by such circumstances.

As you know, many homeless people suffer from some sort of mental illness. I don't have any answers to such a complex problem. I don't know how you make someone take the medication that can make them "better". I don't know that anyone even has the right to make such a decision for another person. My friend's brother maintains that the prescribed meds make him feel like he loses his creativity, the very core of who he is. Would you be willing to sacrifice your Self to be "normal"? What is "normal" anyway? And is it really better?

I went to McDonalds one day a while ago and two homeless men were sitting outside, so I said "Hello, gentlemen" as I opened the door to go inside. When I came out, I heard one of them say to the other, "There's the lady that called us 'gentlemen'." Like it was some big deal. Like no one ever saw them as such. I smiled and said, "Well, aren't you?" When they asked me for money, I only had a $20 bill, so I made them promise to share it between them, to take care of each other.

I don't know what else to do, except do our best to take care of each other. And to recognize in every single person we meet a child of God, just like ourselves. We are all family. We need to take care of each other, to simply care, to look beyond our prejudices and see each other, see the light of God in everyone, murky as it may appear sometimes. I'm murky, too. I don't have many answers. But I can care. You can care. We can take care of each other.

VOTE!

2009-11-03T12:42:00.000-08:00

Today is election day. Though we have mail-in voting privileges here in Washington, I really like to go to the polling place to turn in my ballot. I miss the old booths with the little curtains, and standing in line watching the feet to see which booth will next be vacated. I enjoyed carrying in my tattered Voting Pamphlet with my choices circled and punching the little rectangles on the voting card, my young children hanging on my legs, peeking under the curtains, learning about the whole democratic process.

When I was in high school, our house was a polling place. We lived in the country in a little town in northern California and on election day, Doris Kennedy, the local ballot official, would show up at our house early in the morning with all her voting paraphernalia. We would fly the American flag outside and wait for our neighbors to show up and vote. Though I've never been very politically minded, I felt proud that our family was contributing to the American dream in a tangible way. I watched people come in our front door and disappear into the curtained booth in our living room. And at the end of the day, Doris would carefully gather up the ballot box, pack up the booth, and take down the flag. It seemed like such a powerful thing to me, that boxed collection of the people's will.

There is a two-page spread in our current Voters' Pamphlet about the history of women voting in America. A little perspective goes a long way toward valuing our right to vote. Despite the flaws in the system, the failings of our elected officials, the cynicism of the people, it's a right we can't afford to waste or to lose, "that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth."

Be sure and vote today!

RUTS AND ROUTES AND ICE CREAM

2009-11-02T13:45:00.000-08:00

There is not a lot of choice about how to drive from downtown Camas to my house. Sure, you can head up Dallas or Everett Street, but either way, you'll end up on the main road that goes by the high school, past the cemetery and the little airport, then beyond the Fern Prairie Market. And yes, you can choose the left fork up the hill or the right fork down the hill to loop around to the house. But basically, it's a rutty route, the same drive again and again.

Along the route, I pass several roads I've never been on. Today, on the way home from the grocery store, 277th Street beckoned me to explore. So I zipped down the new-to-me road, happy to be out of my route's rut, not knowing where I'd end up. Lots of people live down 277th Street. I saw a snag tree with two huge limbs that looked like scary arms, and a 1940's pickup truck with flames painted on the sides. I discovered a quilter's home-based business and the Happy Barking Kennel. I saw an estate-like home and a small mobile home park.

The road made a sharp right about a mile down, and I realized I was now on 9th Street, which comes out by the little airport. So I was back on the one route home, though not feeling so rutty this time around. I was so enthused by my little exploration that I thought I'd drive down Stauffer Road, which my kids insist loops around to Ireland Road. They tell me it's the route the school bus takes, but I've only driven down as far as the Fullmer's.

"Hurray!" I thought. "New routes, new roads, no ruts!"

Then I remembered I had bought ice cream. So instead, I came straight home and ate some.

COUNTRY LIVING

2009-10-31T15:39:00.001-07:00

I bought a book at Costco last year called "Country Living." I keep it on my coffee table and read a section now and then; it's chock full of good info about how to pluck a chicken, grow asparagus, build a beehive. I haven't done any of those things yet, even though I live on 5 acres of blackberries in the country.

I went to visit a couple of country friends the other day and noticed their lovely gardens with
eight-foot high fences around them (to keep out the critters) and their chicken coops and their sheds with tractors and other country paraphernalia. They are living the country life. I went home feeling guilty, wondering why I can't conjure the energy to clear out these blackberries so I can build an eight-foot high fence and plant a garden. Or fruit trees. Or build a chicken coop or a beehive. It all sounds so country smart . . . and romantic. Living the country life.

While grumbling to my friend, June, about all this, she commented, "That's OK. You're not really a country girl; you're a nature girl." Ding-ding! That's true! What I love about living in the country is that I can sit anywhere in my house and look out the window at my beautiful trees. I can happily sit for hours, looking at trees. I love to sit on my deck at night and look at the stars, which shine so bright and clear away from the lights of the city. I realized I am a poet, not a gardener. And the world needs poets, too, right?

There's still the issue of wanting to feel like I know HOW to do these self-sufficient things, even if I choose to hire them out, or simply not do them at all and just look at my trees. But I'll deal with that tomorrow. Right now, the trees are calling.

HELLO EVERYBODY!

2009-10-29T13:24:00.000-07:00

That's what Joell sings to us every Thursday morning when I take my grandsons to her Music Together class. Garrett usually comes with me, and sometimes Genevieve, and always Gavin, Zach, and Nate. We sing Hello to everybody, then we enjoy 45 minutes of singing and playing and rhythm and dancing and good, happy fun.

Music moves even the youngest soul, as evidenced by one-year-old Nate today, bouncing up and down on his bum in time to the dancing music. Gavin loves to sing along on the songs he knows and at dancing time, I hold his hands and we spin and spin, his feet flying in a graceful arc, till we both fall down dizzy, breathing hard while the world keeps circling around us. Zach likes to blow out the lights and snuggle up for the lullaby; he needs the rest after spending most of the class running around in spirited glee.

Music is a magical, universal language. If I were forced to choose the one human creation that has been most valuable to our race, I'd choose music.

Everybody sing along now: Goodbye, so long, farewell my friends . . .

DOWNTOWN

2009-10-28T19:56:00.000-07:00

Driving home from choir rehearsal last night, I missed the freeway turnoff and ended up in downtown Portland at 10 p.m.. Petula Clark soon showed up in my head, singing:

When you're alone and life is making you lonely
You can always go -- downtown
When you've got worries, all the noise and the hurry
Seem to help, I know -- downtown
Just listen to the music of the traffic in the city,
Linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty.
How can you lose?

The lights are much brighter there,
You can forget all your troubles, forget all your care
And go DOWNTOWN (swelling music)
Things'll be great when you're DOWNTOWN (are you singing along yet?)
No finer place for sure -- DOWNTOWN (belt it, baby)
Everything's waiting for you.

I'm not really a city girl, but I love going downtown, even accidentally. There's an energy in the air, even at night, even from my car, that thrills me. The city is so alive! There's so much to explore and discover! And Portland is my favorite city; the people here exude a passion for life that inspires and embraces.

So maybe I'll see you there
We can forget all our troubles, forget all our cares
So go -- DOWNTOWN, things will be great
When you're -- DOWNTOWN
Don't wait a minute for -- DOWNTOWN
Everything's waiting for you.

THE MEANING OF LIFE

2009-10-27T17:57:00.000-07:00

I lay in bed last night, sleepless, struggling again with doubt about the meaning of my life, wondering what I am contributing to the world. I am so full of passion and good intent! And I'm not sure what I have to show for it.

I am at times a casualty of my culture, falling prey to the insistent, insidious competition mindset, the idea that we have to be better, bigger, more than.

I am particularly prone to getting down on myself for not making much money. Ever. While some women welcome the role of domestic partner, it has been difficult for me these 30-odd years. Though I'm good at my job, I don't feel well-suited to it.

So as I lay there, I tried to enumerate all the things I've done in my life that I'm proud of , beginning with a list of all the different ways I have made a little money over the years: teaching piano, taking care of others' children, publishing a book (well, really, that was a net loss venture), creating and teaching a class at Portland Community College, teaching music in my girls' school.
There are lots of things I've done without any monetary renumeration at all, but I wanted to explore how I've made money and how I've felt about my various money-making ventures.

I began to smile as I realized that the things I'm most proud of are the things I've created:
the book ("For Love of a Child: Stories of Adoption"), the class ("Principles and Practices of Conscious Living"), the Americana program I created and produced at Lake Creek Learning Center ("Singing Our Way Across the USA"). None of those projects made a mark in my disposable income. But they each brought a sense of pride and joy (hey, how apt!) I made something and I shared it and maybe I helped. And maybe that's enough.

ANNIE'S FIRST DAY

2009-10-25T14:55:00.000-07:00

Today was Annie's first day in the church nursery. She is now eighteen months old and ready to join our lively crew in the two small rooms on the north side of the chapel. Annie was less than thrilled to be there, however. The books, puzzles, toys, and music did not appeal to her at all. And even though she clung to me desperately, she had momentarily forgotten how to do anything but wail.

I coped better than Annie on my first day in the nursery a couple of weeks ago. I am the new Nursery Leader and though many cringe at the calling, I leapt at the chance to serve in this important church classroom. Here is where our youngest members learn the first basic lessons
of Christian doctrine and conduct. They learn that they are loved and valued by God, their families, and their church community. They learn to share and pray and sing. And I learn from them.

I learn from Annie how to be open about your feelings. Just wail if you need to. Sleep when you exhaust yourself, as she did today, oblivious in her corner as the rest of us had a snack, danced to some songs, learned about the gift of families, worked on our art project. Like Annie, I learn to reach my hands and my heart upward when I need comfort. I learn to wait, hoping that what they're telling me is true: that Mom is coming back, that I will get to go home at the end of the uncomfortable ordeal.

Some children bounce in to Nursery on their first day utterly excited to finally be there. Others wail for quite a while. But eventually, all the children learn to love Nursery. It is, after all, the most fun and happenin' place at church. And most importantly, we always have snacks.

WATERFALL

2009-10-24T21:14:00.000-07:00

I've heard it called "Bella's Song" -- you know, the piano piece Edward writes and performs for his love, Bella, in Stephenie Meyer's vampire book series. But really, it's called "Waterfall." I forget who wrote it, and I'm too lazy to go downstairs and check.

I've been learning it on the piano. I practice every day. Genevieve plays this beautifully; it's a delightfully happy little piece. And it goes fast. I smile when I finally get a section up to tempo, fingers flying, the muscle memory kicking in.

I practice other stuff, too. Debussy's "First Arabesque". Beethoven's "Pathetique Sonata". Chopin Preludes and Nocturnes. Bach Inventions. Pieces I learned long ago, but haven't played in years.

I forgot to play for a while, though a baby grand sits in my living room. My step-grandmother gave the piano to me twenty-five years ago, after her only daughter, a gifted pianist, died in a car crash coming home from college. The piano is a gift I cherish. The fact that I can play piano is a gift I am trying to cherish more appropriately.

I forgot how happy it makes me to play. I get lost sometimes in being responsible. I forget to take time to just sit on the bench and make music. I play best when the house is empty, when it's only me I'm playing for. If I could, I'd let you listen. But you'll have to just imagine a melodic waterfall, notes cascading fast and loud, the mist of music in the air.

POINT DEFIANCE

2009-10-23T11:58:00.000-07:00

No, this is not about my tween daughter and the Facebook incident.

This is about Point Defiance Zoo and Aquarium in Tacoma, Washington. Perched on a bluff above Puget Sound, it's part of the larger Point Defiance Park. It's a lovely little zoo, worth a visit, particularly if you have young grandchildren along, as I did yesterday.

Garrett and I made the two-and-a-half hour drive north with Zach and Nate, where we met up with Genevieve, Nolan, and Gavin, who had spent the night in Tacoma with Scott, who is working there this week. We were lucky; the weather was dry and cool, but no problem coats and hats couldn't handle. After lunch in the parking lot, tossing Annie's chocolate bunnies to the peacock, we began our exploration.

Creature highlights: the blind walrus that spits

the Himalayan tiger, who paced just behind the glass, eye to eye with the enthralled humans

the huge porcupine, who scampered across our view in a prickly flash

the elephants, who lifted their feet to get cleaned, then opened their mouths for their treat

the enormous tapir, who stepped into his little lake, swam around, then emerged, leaving behind big floating turds

the weedy seahorses, looking like sticks amongst the kelp

the baby puffins, scared to step on the scale to get weighed by the workers

the hermit crab in the hands-on tidepool

I love sharing the planet with so many interesting creatures. I watched the polar bears yesterday and worried about their cousins, drowning in the arctic seas for lack of polar ice. The bright little tree frog is living a safe life in Point Defiance, but what of its Amazon kin? What of the tortoise from Madagascar, who is designed to live twice as long as we do, but who is endangered because the people of its island home need to eat?

This is clearly a point of defiance for us humans, we who are stewards of the earth. There are
many people working hard to save our planet, whether it's in the area of animal protection or world hunger, energy solutions or politics, women's and children's rights or artistic endeavor.
We may not agree on what needs to happen, or in what order of priority, but I'm sure we all agree that the future of life on our planet is endangered. Maybe it's always been so. But this is our time to seek solutions, to act, in whatever capacity we can, to unite our small efforts. Because the small choices we make each day matter to the larger world. Our small donations count. We can make a difference. You've heard it before. Do you believe that you can change the world?

What are you doing to save the planet?

THREE RIVERS IN AUTUMN

2009-10-21T20:50:00.000-07:00

The sun was so brilliant yesterday that I decided to drive . . .

east into the Columbia River Gorge . . . past the Bonneville Dam . . . Cape Skye . . . Bridge of the Gods . . . through Stevenson . . . and Carson . . . north up the Wind River Highway . . .

the air crisp and clear . . . belting out songs with the Moody Blues . . . until silence beckoned . . .

glossy green fir and cedar forest . . . punctuated with shocking yellow maple . . . the understory of fern . . . swords turned to rust . . . autumn glory . . .

Mt. St. Helens rising ahead . . . its blown top a memento of violence . . . snow stripes decorating its flanks . . .

left along the Lewis River Highway . . . the river dammed . . . Yale Lake to the south . . . a single boat leaving a wake behind on the silent blue water . . . Spirit Lake to the north . . . the mighty Columbia ahead again . . .

the hum of tires on pavement the only sound . . . but for my grinning . . . now and then . . .

DANISH RED CABBAGE

2009-10-19T10:22:00.000-07:00

My high school boyfriend's mother was Danish. Every Christmas, she would make this delicious red cabbage that I simply loved. So when the red cabbage was on sale at Winco the other day, I thought of those Christmases past and grabbed a head.

It had never occurred to me that I could make the dish. But lately, I am on fire in the kitchen. (For me, anyway.) And it has finally dawned on me that the internet can be a great help when wondering how to be creative in the kitchen. I googled Danish Red Cabbage and brought up lots of recipes. (It's actually called Rodkal, with a diagonal line through the O and a little circle over the A. I have no idea what that does to the vowel sounds.) You can do the same. I actually can't find the recipe I used last night, but here's an easier-sounding one, although it does use 4 times the amount of sugar and vinegar that I used.

Rodkal (Danish Red Cabbage)

1 small head of red cabbage, cored and shredded
2 cups white sugar
2 cups white vinegar
2 tsp salt
3 cups water

Put everything in a large saucepan. Bring to a boil, cover, and simmer for 1 hour.

The recipe I used had onion and apple in it, too, a bay leaf, and red wine vinegar. It was done in 45 minutes. So there are various ways to make this. It was good with the pork and noodles we had for dinner. And it's just as good eaten cold.

Enjoy!

MOVIE QUEUE

2009-10-18T00:08:00.000-07:00

When I called Comcast a few weeks ago to see what was going to happen to my rate, now that my year's "bundled special" was over, I found out that it would cost me $50 a month for cable TV. So of course, I canceled it. Then Genevieve told me about www.hulu.com, so I can watch my few television shows online each week. That's working fine. On a roll now, I remembered hearing about Netflix and Blockbuster and how you can get movies sent to you by mail. So I signed up for the free trial at Blockbuster. We'll see how that works.

Now I have a movie queue. (Is that sister to Susie Q?) I thought I'd work my way through the Academy Award winners that appealed to me, so that's what's in my queue. I guess now I wait by the mailbox for my first movie to arrive.

Really, I could be -- maybe should be -- doing a lot of other things besides signing up for movie clubs. But right now, that's all the energy and interest I can muster. Maybe it's something about the autumn air, triggering the instinct to retreat to a cave to wait out the winter. Maybe I need to adjust my homeopathic remedy. Whatever. I'm enjoying reading four books at a time and looking forward to my movies. Don't worry; I did paint the bathroom today, went to yoga class, shopped for Gabrielle's Christmas gifts, took Gloria to the pumpkin patch, and made a yummy frittata for supper. So I am doing stuff. Like right now, I'm going to go check the popcorn supply.

See you at the movie.

MELANCHOLY

2009-10-16T11:24:00.000-07:00

I'm reading a biography of Abraham Lincoln by Joshua Wolf Shenk entitled Lincoln's Melancholy: How Depression Challenged a President and Fueled His Greatness. Did you know that Lincoln suffered from chronic depression all of his life? Shenk, a fellow sufferer of depression, does an admirable job of showing how such melancholy, as it was called in those days, is both a bane and a blessing.

Dysthymia is the clinical term for chronic depression. I have it, too. It's different from episodic depression in that it's always there, like your body and mind have only one aim: to suck all the joy out of your life. It's exhausting, always working to combat the pull of the undercurrent, the black water that threatens to engulf you. It's difficult to know how to handle it, especially in our current culture, where the idea that personal happiness is the ultimate goal of life, predominates. I have never quite trusted that ideology; it seems too shallow.

Dysthymia typically hits in the mid to late twenties, as it did both Lincoln and me. And, like Lincoln, I have always looked for the gifts, the benefits of such an ailment, indeed, of anything "bad" that happens to us. Depression is hell to live with. Many turn to drugs to relieve the suffering, and I don't fault anyone their personal approach to depression. My 25-year experience, though, is that if I can just stay functional, depression brings a certain kind of deep awareness, a knowledge of Truth that can't come any other way. And I benefit from those hard lessons, in ways that change me permanently, hopefully for the better, as I keep my eye on Christ. I rarely feel happy. But I have many times experienced a joy in my soul that goes beyond anything this world can offer.

Lincoln always felt that his life had a larger purpose, even long before his time to shine came. And he used everything he had at his disposal -- his intelligence, his compassion, his training, his melancholy -- to try to live into that nebulous destiny that he sensed. I'm not trying to compare myself to Lincoln. But I do hope that like him, I can use all that I've been given to fulfill my own life purpose. Even the hellish gifts. All of it. All for the glory of God.

WHO ARE YOU CALLING "SENIOR"?

2009-10-14T12:43:00.000-07:00

"How old are you?" the checkout clerk asks. I scan my purchases -- blouse, dress, jeans, candles, PedEgg (are those regulated?) -- trying to see what has alarmed her and elicited the question. No booze, no cigarettes, no guns. What is she after?

"I'm 53. Why?"

"It's Senior Discount Day today."

"That's the first time anyone has ever asked me if I was old enough for the senior discount," I reply, frankly stunned.

The woman behind me -- about my age -- laughs, and says, "My first time was last week. Rather disheartening, isn't it? My daughter recently asked if I was going to move into town, so I could be closer to a hospital."

"Yes, my daughter is anxiously waiting to take away my car keys at the first sign of 'elderly' driving," I respond.

Hmmmph. I don't know how I suddenly became old. My mother-in-law once remarked, "I feel like the same girl I always was, but I look in the mirror and can't find myself." I understand that experience. But still, do I look like I'm eligible for senior discounts? Maybe in the neck, where, if I pinch the skin together, it stays. I do stand in front of the mirror sometimes and pull my face back to see what might happen if I got a facelift. And yes, all my body parts are situated a bit south of their original position. But still.

I'm attaching a picture from last year. Please tell me how old you think I look.

Meanwhile, I'm going to take a nap.

COUPLING

2009-10-13T11:24:00.001-07:00

Stephen and I went to our first Couples class last night, an offering of the local Community Ed program. You won't find me saying much about marriage in this blog because . . . well, just because. But it was a great class. It's called "Lasting Relationships" and apparently, it's funded by a government grant from some department about healthy living. The whole 10-hour course costs just $15 for the both of us, including snacks and child care. I am always alert to a great deal, and judging from our first session, this is a great deal.

Here's the most helpful thing I learned: guys feel loved when their gals just hang out with them. We all know there are some important differences between men and women, and we also know that these are to be taken only as generalities. But apparently, my husband (and in general, all male partners) feels connected to me simply by being with me, even if we don't talk or actually do anything. This explains his comment -- "I enjoyed today!" -- the day we rode around in the car (I've forgotten why) without any conversation or purpose. My memory of that day is, "I could have more fun alone; this is so boring!" Or the time we went out to dinner and he happily ate in silence while I thought, "I'm bringing a book next time."

Women need conversation to feel connected. Men apparently don't. Of course, there has to be a lot of give and take so that everyone's needs are met in a relationship. But the point I want to remember is that my partner has different ways of feeling connected, different ways of judging how the relationship is going. You'd think after 31 years of marriage, I would already know to remember this, but hey, that's what Couples class is for.

APPLE CAKE

2009-10-12T12:10:00.000-07:00

We had extra eaters for dinner last night, so I decided to bake a cake. I don't bake much at all, and have little confidence in my culinary capabilities. I pulled out a recipe I'd written down eons ago, but I couldn't remember ever having made the cake. Apple cake. Sounded like just the thing to go with pork and potatoes. Besides, I've had a couple of big cans of dehydrated apples in my pantry for quite some time and I never know what to do with them.

It turned out to be a yummy cake. Here's the recipe:

APPLE CAKE

2 cups flour (I used fresh ground whole wheat flour)
2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp cinnamon (I used extra cinnamon and nutmeg)
1/4 tsp nutmeg
2 eggs
1/2 cup oil
4 cups sliced apples (I soaked the dehydrated apples in hot water to fluff them up)
1 1/2 cups sugar

Optional: 1/2 raisins, 1/2 cup nuts, 1/2 cup coconut (I added the raisins and coconut)

Mix thoroughly and pour into prepared loaf pan. Bake 45 minutest at 350*. (I baked mine 60 minutes, since it didn't look done.)

I don't know why you couldn't bake this in a flatter pan, like a 9" x 13". But it did turn out chewy and moist, so maybe the loaf pan matters.

I bought caramel and apples and sticks last week for my next apple adventure. It's autumn apple season, and of course, we live in Washington -- the apple state. (When we bought apples in Guatemala, we discovered they were from Washington.) So enjoy the bounties of the harvest!

IN HONOR OF PARENTS

2009-10-10T10:22:00.001-07:00

Today is grandson Zachary's birthday. I was there at his birth in Chicago's Mercy Hospital three years ago, a privilege I've enjoyed with every grandchild so far. It is a different experience to be a part of a birth, without being the one birthing. And it is an awesome and unique experience to be a "Nonnie".

I've got five grandsons now, plus Max, our bonus grandson, brother to birth-grandson, Fin. (Yes, you can ask . . .) Besides Fin and Max, there is Nolan and Gavin, Genevieve and Scott's sons, and Zach and Nate, Garrett's and Bayra's boys. Nolan and Gavin are asleep (I hope) in my playroom tonight, while their parents jet off to Hawaii. Now that Zach and Nate have moved to Vancouver, all my little boys live nearby and I am SO glad to have them close enough to take to music class, have sleepovers, pop in whenever. I love being their Nonnie!

And I honor their parents, for being loving and courageous enough to bring them into the world and into their families, for making all the sacrifices that go with good parenting, for dedicating their prodigious talents to growing good people. Genevieve is pregnant with our next grandchild.
Despite her valid fears and concerns, she understands the value of motherhood and is willing to go the distance for the sake of another life.

I honor all those parents who are raising my grandchildren. They are my heroes. I have no way to say how grateful I am for their tireless work. I honor all the parents out there who are willing be lifegivers, who take the risk despite the fear, who stay the long and unpredictable course of parenting. Those are the people changing the world, one diaper, one hug, one lesson, one child at a time.

SWEARING IN AN OREGON BAR

2009-10-08T23:36:00.000-07:00

Okay, actually it was THE Oregon Bar, and it was my son, Garrett, who was sworn in today as an official attorney, licensed to practice in the state of Oregon. My husband, Stephen, and I went with him to Salem this morning for the grand event, attended by most of the Oregon Supreme Court justices and other high falutin' lawyer types. Frankly, I expected a rather dry sort of ceremony, but it turned out to be rip-roarin' fun. Well, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration, but who knew lawyers could be so amusing? And real. It was gratifying to see other young lawyers with proud parents and/or toddlers in tow. The president of the Oregon Bar admonished the newbies to "be good at home" and offered sound advice on keeping life in balance.

We are very proud of Garrett, who had two babies with wife Bayra during his three-year stint at University of Chicago Law School. He graduated with honors and survived that tough period with sanity, sense, and family relations intact. That's no small feat. He is now enjoying being a full-time daddy while Bayra earns the money until January, when Garrett's job at Holland and Knight law firm begins.

Garrett tries to get us to call him Esquire now. We just laugh. But with real pride.

OOPS -- UPS!

2009-10-07T21:43:00.000-07:00

So I'm just stepping out of the shower when I hear a truck pull up my driveway. Then footsteps up the stairs. Then the doorbell. I'm dripping wet, it's the middle of the day, and there is no sure way to get to my bathrobe without the doorbell ringer seeing me through the window. We rarely get visitors here in our country home. We don't worry about privacy.

Then I hear footsteps down the stairs and the truck starting up again. "Oh, a delivery," I surmise, relieved. I begin to dry off, in a hurry to get to Gloria's school to pick her up for a piano lesson. Then I hear the truck coming around the BACK of my house. No one ever drives to the back of the house, except for family. My bathroom is at the back of the house and it has a big picture window, with a clear view right into the bathroom. Not only that, what you can't see directly through the window you can see reflected in the huge mirror opposite the window. You can see me, for instance, still dripping just behind the shower wall.

I take a quick step toward the closet, hoping to make a dash for it in my towel. I slip and fall on the tile floor in a puddle of purple towel and laughter. I realize that at least he can't see me down here, huddled behind the tub, below the level of the mirror. I decide to wait him out. Until I remember I am expecting a delivery of some food storage. Fourteen boxes, to be precise. This may take awhile.

I crawl toward the closet, hiding behind the tub, laughing all the way. I have to choose different clothes, since the ones I've chosen are already set out in the bathroom. I'm afraid to turn on the light. I hope my socks match.

Dressed at last, I sneak upstairs and peek at the driver through the girls' window. Still unloading. I can't see, but he must be stacking those fourteen boxes in front of the closed garage door. Behind my car. It's too embarrassingly late to go offer to help him now. I'll just stay quiet.

Finally, the truck drives off, I raise the garage door and yes, there they are: fourteen boxes of food storage. Right behind my car.

UNIFIED DISSONANCE

2009-10-07T11:30:00.000-07:00

I sing in the Portland Mormon Choir and we rehearse on Tuesdays. Last night, while rehearsing a new piece for our Christmas program, we counted the dissonant chords in the climax of the song. There were about ten full-bodied, eight-note chords in the progression, and of that number, we counted only one that was "standard" -- you know, the comfortable, pleasant-sounding, all-the-notes-in-the-same-key kind of chord. Just the one -- like a teaser, a reminder of the routine.

You'd be surprised, perhaps, at how utterly cool that section of the song sounds, given all the dissonance. But we sing with "unified dissonance", as our director admonishes. When everyone is singing their note with accuracy and confidence, no matter what we're hearing in our ear or from the other side of the room, we can actually feel the waves of sound reverberating in our bones, the discordant notes crashing into each other above and in our heads in a beauteous cacophony. Yet there is unity in our dissonance, because we each know our part and sing it well. And eventually, the chords resolve into a rich, round sound of pleasure and peace.

It reminded me of my family. Often, we sing long stretches of dissonant notes, with just a few teaser chords in there to remind us of more pleasant tones, better times. Just as often, however, we end the day with resolution, that final chord that brings everything and everyone back into harmony, even if only temporarily.

Unified dissonance. It brings interest and excitement and movement to a musical piece. And to a family. So sing your note with gusto. Hold your part, no matter what else is going on. Trust that in the end, all will resolve. And in the meantime, in the middle of the discordant song, close your eyes and feel the unity and the beauty rattling your bones and your soul.

PORTLAND MORMON CHOIR AND ORCHESTRA'S CHRISTMAS PROGRAM: 19 DEC 2009

KITCHEN CREATIVITY

2009-10-06T11:34:00.000-07:00

Alfalfa sprouts and pear crisp. Yum! One I bought, the other I recently made. This is significant because: I don't usually buy alfalfa sprouts, and I hardly ever bake. But when I was on our recent round-the-world trip, I discovered that creativity in the kitchen can actually be fun, and I resolved to come home and try something new in my own kitchen.

A few years ago, I commented to my stepfather, who is a whiz in the kitchen, "I just don't see how it could be any fun to get creative with food." Shortsighted, I know, but such an attitude came, I think, from decades of having to prepare meal after meal for a large family on a tiny budget. Which really isn't a whole lot of fun. Creative, yes, but not the fun kind of creativity, resulting in mouth-watering delectables like you go out and pay for at fancy restaurants. But now that I can afford alfalfa sprouts and brown sugar, and now that there are only four of us living in the house, I'm beginning to view creativity in the kitchen differently.

I love good food! And good health. I love the new trend toward healthy, whole-food cooking.
My lawyer friend, Donna Kelly, loves to cook and is creating a whole new second life for herself as a cookbook writer. I don't foresee that I will ever enjoy more than an hour at a time in the kitchen, but I did enjoy making that pear crisp. And tomorrow, I'm having alfalfa sprouts on my tuna sandwich. Today, however, I'm going to try out a new bistro in Camas for lunch. A creative cook needs inspiration, you know.

THE PROJECT

2009-10-05T11:11:00.000-07:00

My intent over the next year is to stay open to all new experiences and ideas -- whether as a planned choice or a serendipitous encounter -- and to blog about it. The idea is to try or to notice something new every single day. Already, I have noticed that every day is a creative act, that every day brings new adventures into my little life sphere, whether I'm looking for adventure or not.

Yesterday, for instance, I started reading a new book about Abraham Lincoln, laughed at my grandson Nate who was wearing a hat he'd made out of fake moss, and figured out how to thaw frozen butter in the microwave so we could spread it on our bread for dinner. Small things. Small acts of creation, of intention and action.

My hope is that this little blog of mine -- this small act of creation, intention, and action will open up vistas of wonder and light heretofore unrecognized, both in my life and yours.

Let's talk. Post comments. Disagree. Note a similar experience. Question. Most of all, enjoy!