SOUTHEAST 9TH AND STERRETT STREET

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.