COUNTRY LIVING

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"?

"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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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!