Hello beloved Bottari readers! I've found a new blog home here: a moment aglow
I hope you'll join me!
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Two and a half weeks ago, CHB threw a cooler into the back of his truck, zipped up his red jacket, and drove us through Provo Canyon.
The sun was setting, low and lazy, when we found a grassy spot near the river. We rolled out a blanket and set down the blue and white cooler. The two small tubs of Hagan Daaz ice cream were cold, nestled among the dripping ice cubes.
We listened to the clicking crickets, CHB dipping into my tub of coffee and me dipping into his tub of chocolate peanut butter. It was a sweet and perfect exchange.
As I lifted the lid of the cooler to put the ice cream away, I saw a book bathing in the pool of melted ice.
I pulled the book out and carefully removed the plastic wrapping. I immediately recognized it as one of the hardcover books--the beautiful Penguin Classics--that CHB has been gifting me throughout our courtship. Every month or so he offers up a new book for no good reason at all (which is really the best reason to give a gift).
Our initials were engraved on the cover.
"Our initials!" I said.
"Look inside," he said.
I opened the book; CHB had carved a proposal through the thick pages of text.
Tied to a red ribbon book mark and resting within the deep groove of the exclamation point's point (!) was my great-grandmother's ring.
In one fluid and fearless movement, I passed the ring to him, he got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife.
Of course, yes. It was the easiest "yes." The best and sweetest on my tongue "yes."
Then, we rested on our backs and watched the bats swoop through the milky blue sky and felt chilled by the night air.
And then, my whole body was full of light.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
CHB and I spent a couple of days exploring the Uintas mountains last weekend. How do you capture the expansive swallow of the precipices or the clean snap of a pine cone under your feet? Pictures and words can't quite narrate the allure of the macro...
nor the allure of the micro...
I'm convinced the Uintas' story is best understood by walking long and late through her quiet trails.
Monday, July 23, 2012
A photo from our weekend backpacking trip to Packard Lake, The Uintas
Do you remember that scene in Breakfast at Tiffany's when Holly Golightly (played by the eternally enchanting Audrey Hepburn) explains to her friend Paul Varjak that she doesn't get the blues so much as the mean reds?
"The blues are because you're getting fat, and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad, that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid, and you don't know what you're afraid of."
I get the mean reds, too. Out of nowhere they latch onto my body, beleaguering my bones and suffocating my cells. They make my guts feel crowded and dizzy. It's like a giant bruise, spreading purple and pulsing. For several days this week I was battling my way through a mean red onslaught. I was feeling angry and trapped. Most maddening of all was that I couldn't figure out why my world felt cracked.
I went to CHB's house on Sunday to seek some refuge, but only ended up feeling angrier. For hours I tried to explain my bruise to him and bruised him in the process--as the mean reds are anything but elegant. Finally, in a moment of total vulnerability and exhaustion, I said to CHB, "I don't like myself." And I didn't. Not in that moment. Not with all of the clumsy and cruel thrashing about that I was doing.
Without missing a beat he walked over to me--me who was crouched in the chair like some frightened animal--and held on tightly.
I cried hard into his shirt. He laid his hands on my back.
I said, "I feel alone."
He said, "I'm here."
And the three days of darkness left. Up to the sky they flew, swift and immediate. My cracked world let in the light. My bones sighed, my cells expanded, and my guts relaxed. Every drop of venom pulsing through my veins went sweet. It was nothing less than alchemy.
In that moment, I thought back to my dissolved marriage and the ways in which the man I chose to love ten years ago was not interested in tending the bruise but only intensifying it.
Then I thought forward to the man I'm choosing to love now. His heart is crystalline. He is a healer of bruised spirits. His love changes me. It's clear, he is gifted in the art of alchemy.
Monday, July 2, 2012
The end of the world is located in Lucin, Utah. This is also where the Sun Tunnels live.
Here, at the end of the world, you can watch a fat, sinking sun lick the earth. She leaves the entire planet in her wake, bathing everything in an orange and juicy glow.
You can use the tunnels as a telescope and survey the scrub brushed moonscape. If you're lucky, you may see coy foxes, feisty badgers, giant eared jackrabbits, quiet coyotes, and a snappy little scorpion with extra ordinary powers of persuasion.
You may even want to stop by a honky tonk karaoke bar for those mini cow burgers.
You know the ones. From the mini cows.
At the end of the world your hair can't help but dance, and you can't help but feel a little sassy.
It is the end of the world, after all.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
This photo of the Columbia Gorge has nothing to do with this post. It is pretty and was placed here to suggest that Oregon may be the most beautiful state in the union.
Preamble: I have really missed writing on my blog. I've discovered that me no write, me no happy. So here we go again. Hiatus undone.
I've been sitting on my bedroom floor this morning with 22 years worth of journals sprawled out around me, giving me the distinct look of a crazy-eyed protagonist in an episode of Hoarders. I hoped that in reading through these journals I would be able to better map my world and find a key to the door labeled "understanding my interior self." I wanted to find the patterns in the text, like some sort of secret code that would illuminate at my command and gift me with a grand revelation about Who. I. Am. As I am second to none in the art of navel gazing, I had high expectations of self-realization. After a full morning of reading, my conclusion is this: I am delightfully common, prone to melancholy, and boy crazy, more or less.
Join me, won't you, in revisiting the Junes of years past:
June 1991 My American Girls journal allotted me five measly lines of text a day which meant that it was imperative I write the most mind blowing things that I experienced in a 24 hour stretch. June 8: "Dear Diary, Brooke and me went to a movie. Last night we went to a birthday sleep-over. We rented movies and put on press on nails. It was fun." I'll tell you what, twenty years later, and I would still consider press-on nails worth mentioning.
June 1993 I was listening to a lot of Richard Marx while pining after my first love, Shawn B. Shawn left for a 4 week summer vacation to Utah, and I could not be consoled. "Now I'm listening to a Richard Marx song that's making me even sadder...whenever I listen to a slow Richard Marx song, it makes me cry." So apropos, 14-year-old-Krisanne. So apropos.
June 1996 My high school boyfriend, Nick N., was leaving for college and our good-bye wasn't as romantic as I had envisioned so I took it upon myself to construct a different, much better ending in my journal. "I hope I get my chance again to watch him leave, and I'll shout 'Fare thee well my bright star!'*, and I'll know that that good-bye was very, very, truly good."
*I dramatically quoted Indigo Girls lyrics the entire summer due to my firm belief at the time that all of life's experiences were best expressed through lesbian folk rock.
June 1999 I was living in Africa with a Namibian tribe called the Himba. Yes, ok, I'll admit, this is uncommon, quite joyful, and completely unrelated to boys. "As I write, baby monkey's are playing in the trees above me." When will I ever be able to say that again?
June 2003 I was divorcing a man who repeatedly told me, in myriad and sometimes quite imaginative ways, that I was a waste of his time. It goes without saying, this was a very sad time for me and a huge score for my melancholy.
June 2008 This was the summer of spiritual reckoning. I spent a lot of time alone in South Korea and subsequently had some empty, quiet space to philosophize. I wrote about this Book of Mormon scripture: "Behold there is a time appointed that all shall come forth from the dead." (Alma 40:4). It occurred to me that this is our ultimate goal in life: at some point we will all awaken from the long sleep that is our constructed reality. "The dreamers awaken, the dead revive, the spiritually dead are given a jolt of electricity. Our purpose is realized: to wake from the dead."
June 2011 Last year at this time, I had "come out" on my blog as a supporter of gay rights. It was a tremendously scary thing for me to do precisely because of the backlash that I feared would ensue and that did, in actuality, ensue. I quoted Leonardo Da Vinci in my journal, "Where there is heat, there is life" and mused that perhaps "these hot, heartbreaking circumstances of my life are re-birthing me." I'm convinced they still are.
And here we are. June 2012. I suspect I am slightly wiser than I was in June 1991. The school of life has knocked some sense into me (fo shizzle). Yet, I'm still fairly common, still enamored with my darker side, and still completely boy crazy as evidenced by growing collection of CHB blog posts. Without discounting the great gift we all have to transform ourselves, there is something comforting in finding that the more things change, the more they quite often stay the same.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
I need to take a small break from the blog. I'm not quite sure why but it has something to do with a pulling away from my virtual life and a pushing towards my actual life. I think a balance can be struck between the virtual and the actual, and I will be back in a few weeks when I've figured out how to straddle that line gracefully. Until then, I will leave you with these iphone pics of CHB at one of our favorite pizza places in SLC: Este Pizzeria. "Why these pics of CHB?" you ask. Because he's scrumptious, that's why.