"HAITI ISN'T READY FOR DEMOCRACY"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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