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.