Bottari

Offer A 'Holy Yes'

2012-01-20T04:52:00.000-08:00

Val Britton, under the ruptured sky, 2012

"Say a holy yes to the real things of our life as they exist."-Natalie Goldberg

A 'holy yes'. Not to be confused with 'just yes'. 'Just yes' means that I will endure life with stone-faced stoicism and a hope rooted only in the great hereafter. 'Just yes' means that I speak ill of pain, branding her the ugliest part and parcel of life--an inevitable evil, a cross to bear. 'Just yes' means that with each stripe I bear on earth I expect a reward in heaven: 10 choirs of angels, please. 'Just yes' is suffering the heat of the fire without praising her light.

But a 'holy yes'--A 'holy yes' means that I will bury my feet in the soil, rooted in the here and now, tilting my head to the sky in gratitude; I will make room for the sublime and the unsightly, recognizing that they are often one and the same. A 'holy yes' means that I will see pain for what she is--a glowing ember, a divine heart, a merciful gift disguised as my greatest fear. A 'holy yes' means "Thank you God. For everything. Even the shadows. I am made light." A 'holy yes' is learning slowly, ever slowly, to appreciate pain's sharp blade. What better way to carve a space in my heart for joy to grow?

Happy Birthday, CHB!

2012-01-14T04:39:00.000-08:00

For those of you who don't know what CHB stands for, a friendly definition:

CHB, (n), [see aych bee]
1. Curly Haired Boy
2. Calm Handsome Beloved
3. Curious Hopeful Brave
4. Creative Hilarious Blessed
5. Clever Heavenly Blue-eyed
6. Confident Helpful Benevolent
7. Cool Happy Blissful
8. Charming Honorable Bright

Happy Birthday, CHB. You make my heart sing.

Ring In The New Year: Bring Forth What You Love

2012-01-12T20:41:00.000-08:00

Long exposure photographs of fireflies in Japan via This is Colossal

I haven't written in such a long time. My brain feels a little bit creaky and my words a little melted around the edges. Can you guess what one of my New Year's Resolutions is? You are correct! Write more! I know many people think the idea of crafting resolutions for the new year is silly. Why dedicate some arbitrary day to goals too slippery to keep? Well, I say, why not? Why not choose one day and bless it with your faith--a faith that you will be just a little bit better this swing around the sun? I love the symbolism of the New Year. We are submerged in the darkest, coldest part of the season (at least in Utah); in that darkness we are inclined to curl up inside of ourselves, dig around for a bit, and then bring forth what we love and what we would love more of.

Because I am an organizational freakshow (I say that lovingly), I made a spreadsheet with all of my resolutions and divided them into categories (e.g. Health, Creativity, Spirituality, etc.) Here are some of my favorite resolutions in no fancy or significant order:

1. Get married to CHB (I know I said these were in no particular order, but this definitely belongs in the #1 slot)

2. Improve my driving skillz. This includes re-learning how to parallel park and not saying swears in the car when I'm stuck behind slow drivers, the majority of whom are really sweet grandmas on their way to visiting teaching.

3. Get on the Downton Abbey fast track. I'm way behind on this trend. I haven't even seen one episode yet but I already know I love the show.

4. Always have fresh flowers in my home. I received some Orchids for Christmas, and my spirit skipped ten notches forward. What miracles flora can fashion for us!

5. Make a new meal every Sunday--I now have a cache of enviable cook books thanks to the matriarchs in my life. This is a spiritual endeavor for me; I want to learn more about feeding my body and the bodies of those I love with healthy food and honest conversation. I want to experience more of my eating and my cooking as communion with the earth, my family, and the Divine.

6. Try not to get addicted to Pinterest. Oops! Too late!

7. Articulate my gratitude daily. Perhaps I will do this on my blog. Perhaps my journal. Perhaps in my evening assembly with God. Regardless, I don't want to forget how deeply blessed it is to be human.

I think that's enough for tonight. If I can accomplish one of these resolutions by the end of the year, I will be happy. Progress is slow and sweet. How do you feel about making resolutions for the new year?

Happy New Year!

2011-12-31T09:44:00.000-08:00

I hope you're having as much FUN as we are!

Tickled and Thrilled

2011-12-05T19:51:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of Mark Laita

This week I am tickled and thrilled by the existence of...

Mark Laita's Photography
Feathered Feast
For The
Eyes

Lemon Trees
The Prettiest
Drops Of
Lemon And Green

Planet Fitness
Tootsie Rolls
All You Can Eat Pizza
No Grunting!

A Very She & Him Christmas
Zooey
Croons
Christmas

Ten Spaces For Gratitude

2011-11-24T08:52:00.000-08:00

Natsumi Hayashi, Levitation 5.18.2011, 2011

Today I am thankful for...

1. You, dear readers, for your wit, empathy, intelligence, nuance, and support. Your contribution to this blog mean so much to me. Thank you.

2. A curious spirit that is endlessly thrilled by opportunities to uncover, dissect, disassemble, reassemble, connect, and unveil.

3. Healthy legs and healthy lungs that take me on adventures near and far.

4. A close circle of friends who are wise and faithful, hopeful and creative, inspired and inspiring.

5. A family composed of members who are quirky, hilarious, optimistic, supportive, grounded and endlessly loving.

6. A Curly Haired Boy who seeks peace, creation, collection, faith, innovation, and me. I really love that he seeks me.

7. Nature: A bower bird's nest, tiny neon Jelly Fish, hazelnut shells, a starling murmuration

8. Food: Sweet sticky rice with mango, peanut butter and banana sandwiches, spicy ginger candy, honeycrisp apples, roasted parsnips, gooey brie cheese

9. Art: conceptualized, collaged, installed, painted, splattered, carved, spoken, danced, folded, exploded, hidden, hung, buried, printed

10. God. A divine that weaves itself through my DNA, my cells, my toes, the chunks of rock and dirt in the ground beneath me. A divine that lives in my pumping heart, in my cupped hand, in my sleepy eyes, and in my hopeful inhale. A divine that manifests itself in each person, animal, food, and object in numbers 1-9. For that everpresent God I am the MOST grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Unearthing The Sacred Amidst The Rubble

2011-11-22T06:51:00.000-08:00

I went to lunch with an old friend last weekend that I hadn't seen in more than a decade. Over soup and salad we recapped the happenings of the last ten years. We discovered that we both got married young and divorced relatively quickly. We were both education and career focused with a tremendous amount of faith in our ability to succeed in the working world and a little (lot) less faith in our ability to succeed in relationships. The trajectories of our lives have stretched into twin arches.

At one point in the conversation she asked me, "Do you think God orchestrated your life in this way? Do you think God wanted you to choose marriage to B and then choose divorce as a means of leading you to where you are today?"

I've thought about that question a lot since my divorce. I've thought, "Well, if I hadn't married B and then gotten divorced from B, I wouldn't have moved to this wonderful place and gotten this wonderful job and made these wonderful friends and felt just generally wonderful about a, b, and c. So God must have wanted it to be just this way." It's true that the poor choices I made before and during marriage--the ones that unearthed a deep reservoir of pain and self-doubt--also led to some of the most meaningful and joyful experiences of my life. With that said, I'm not convinced anymore that God was invested in things turning out one way or the other.

With a few (very few) exceptions, I don't feel like God offers much input into my choices. I have friends who pray with every step and breath. They seek guidance at each turn and feel God's approval or disapproval of their daily movements. I think this is a valid way to interact with God but it's not my way of interacting with God. On the contrary, He has been rather laissez faire with my small daily movements as well as my sweeping gestures (where to live, what to major in, who to love). I felt a clear and immediate prompting to move closer (geographically and emotionally) to CHB, but that experience was one of those very few exceptions.

I don't see God's minimal guidance in my life as an indication of abandonment, though. I have never felt far from Him. Rather I have felt that God gives me this great expanse of space to fumble around and find my way. And while I'm fumbling, He's always there with His offering: the opportunity to consecrate the pain that inevitably arises with being a human who sees through a glass darkly. Every misstep and slip and disorientation is met with God's voice. He says to me, "Place your great tangled mess on this altar and together we'll undo the tangles. Eventually, we'll weave those disentangled threads together into a tapestry that speaks of greater self-awareness, deeper compassion and more forgiveness. I'll help you see the ultimate wisdom in your movements no matter how clumsy or clunky they seem now. I'll even help you see the miraculous sparks of light that live in your most opaque corners."

God may not direct my every step, breath and turn as He seems to do with others, but there is no doubt in my mind that He is constantly at work in my life, tirelessly unearthing the sacred amidst the rubble and teaching me to do the same.

Tickled and Thrilled

2011-11-19T17:08:00.000-08:00

Kevin and Winnie

This week I am tickled and thrilled by the existence of...

Jimmy Fallon as Jim Morrison
Reading Rainbow
Has Never Been
Sexier

Real Hero
Smooth
Electric
Grooves

Flowerbomb
Sweet Scents
Courtesy Of
CHB

Rolo Pretzel Pecan Bites
Chewy And Sweet
Mouth
Treat

The Wonder Years
Kevin Arnold +
Winnie Cooper=
True Love

Missing #3

2011-11-11T12:32:00.001-08:00

Kathy Vargas, Missing #3, 1992

On my run I saw a dead owl lying in the crease of the road; she was pressed beneath the lip where the curb and the asphalt meet. I thought, 'This dead owl must be an omen.' I've always wanted to be a diviner, knocking dusty bones together or sifting through the sticky innards of a bird to articulate my fate. As a diviner I could read the micro parts of life (bone, feather, liver) to understand something about the macro parts of life (love, health, fortune). But to be a diviner you have to kill mystery; you have to dissect and disembowel her; you have to snuff that which is weighted and full of breath and flight. I'm jealous of those birds who tuck the future between the folds of each feather...but am I willing to pluck them dry to read the secrets tattooed on their wrinkled skin? No. I think maybe it's best to let mystery fly.

Tickled and Thrilled

2011-11-07T19:26:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of Piggy and Dirt

This week I am tickled and thrilled by the existence of...

Trader Joe's Dark Chocolate Bar with Caramel and Black Sea Salt
Chocolate and Caramel
Salt, Too
The Triumvirate

Antiques Roadshow
Goosebumps
Each and Every
Time

Glass Stars
Two Bright Souls
Create
Bright Stars

Soundtracks for Everyday Adventures
Whimsical
Curious
Adventures, Indeed

Empress of the Blues

2011-11-04T15:46:00.000-07:00

Romare Bearden, Empress of the Blues, 1974

She is the empress with the cumulus breasts and the Tennessee hips that sway and weep with the drum beat. A drop of sweat drips down her lip, a salty blue pearl that catches the shadow. She salutes the pops and the trills darting through the rising smoke. The warm rush and fiery bite of the trumpets weld her a rubied crown. She is the empress of the blues. But even still there is some sad honey sleep in her voice. Do you hear the alpha and the omega in that one sweet honey note? Taste the soul in her song like licorice melting on your tongue. And while you listen still, she builds her throne with f# minor armrests and a four quarter beat back, a seat of gilded b flats and a foot stool sewn from down beats. Royal constructions by the empress of the blues.

Scary Hairy Halloween

2011-10-31T07:15:00.000-07:00

We want to wish you a...

Scary Hairy Halloween!

Death and the Maiden (Happy Halloween!)

2011-10-28T04:56:00.000-07:00

Egon Schiele, Death and the Maiden, 1915

Soak your feet in the blood and the ash. You belong here. Buried in this soil is your mother’s silver webbed hair, her moth paper skin, her toes spongey and black, curled like seashells from years shrouded in a post-mortem slumber. Her ancient breath sleeps and then wakes, weaving itself as a thin thread, sewing together the crusted layers of ice and earth. If you dig deep enough your seeking fingers will melt into this grave of memories, this hearth of bones.

Sledgehammer Love

2011-10-25T22:58:00.000-07:00

Portrait courtesy of the exquisitely talented Ashmae

Friday night I drove CHB to the Intermountain Instacare to tend to a remarkably puffy, purple-blue-purple ankle. After 30 minutes of fantasizing about the sweet potato corn pudding featured in the Better Homes and Gardens I found on the waiting room table, CHB emerged from the doctor's office with crutches in tow and a fancy black boot on his leg. Verdict: A broken fibula.

It was just three months ago that CHB was driving me to the Instacare to help tend to a toe, plum sliced open by a piece of wayward glass. The previous evening we sat on the bathroom floor while I moaned melodramatically and watched my toe blood dripping onto his tiles. I buried my face in a t-shirt to quell the nausea while CHB, in his CHB way, calmly cleansed and wrapped my wounded foot.

It turns out that CHB and I are pretty good at this healing business. We made an agreement one year ago while I was still living in Portland that I would leave the land of soy burgers and Subarus (put a bird on it!) and move to Provo so that we could tend to each other's wounded hearts. I don't think the decision was articulated in quite those terms--it was more along the lines of, "I dig you. You dig me. Let's hang out."--but we both knew that we were moving towards the center of things where the big, hot healing takes place. Basically, we both knew that we were walking into love. Not the chubby, naked cupid love, mind you. Nor the melting into a sunset while sharing a juicy mango love. No, this was the it's-about-to-get-real-up-in-here love. It's the brand of love that requires you to place your heart on the altar and pick up your sledgehammer. There's a lot of work to do busting through protective walls cemented stiff with fear, tearing down well groomed narratives, smashing in calcified layers of cynicism and regret. It's violent, but the spilling open and the breaking apart are imperative to the healing and the coming together. Which is why you have to do this kind of love with someone you trust, someone who will hold your bleeding foot and your wounded heart with care, someone who will prop up your broken ankle and your battered spirit without reservation.

I'm proud of our courage. We get to the business of healing feet and healing hearts, CHB and I. We're in sledgehammer love. That's how we do.

We Are All Setting Suns

2011-10-21T11:07:00.001-07:00

Jenny Morgan, We Are All Setting Suns, 2010

There is a millstone women wear that's been forged by a history of violation. When I sit in the kitchen and read about the boundaries of women's bodies being smothered and snuffed out (rape, disfigurement, mutilation, and abortion) I notice the cushions of flesh around my hips and thighs begin to loosen and slack until they flap against my chair. I feel my torso soften and melt like the day old butter that's been sitting on the counter for too long. I see my womb collapse into a sopping red dish rag that drips bloodied into the cracked, gray tile below. Eventually my transformation is complete--my body dissolves into its billions of particles, floating through the kitchen like clouds of spilled flour. It seems that to be weightless in the air and formless in the ground is safer than walking beleaguered atop the earth. And so we come to the greatest sin of mankind:

To erase the boundaries of a woman's body until she is nothing more than the cloud of flour used to bake your bread.

Tickled and Thrilled

2011-10-19T18:51:00.000-07:00

Photo courtesy of PhamFatale.com

This week I am ticked and thrilled by the existence of...

Body Butter
Post shower
sweet
souffle

Uppercase Magazine
The
perfect
read

eos Lipbalm
Tangerine egg
lip
aid

Trouble
Whipped
and silky
for my ears

Avocado milkshakes
Surprise!
A
dessert.

Above The Fjord

2011-10-14T07:10:00.001-07:00

Above the Fjord, Amy Cutler, 2010

My two sisters and I were born in the icy air above the fjord. Like the mermaids swimming in the black-green waters below, our bodies are bilingual. Our bellies and breasts whisper in soothing tones of velvet and plum while our hips and heels boom with the force of an avalanche. We have traded in crescent moon thighs and pomegranate knees for a foundation of craggy rock and slate gray cliff. An old farmer in the valley squints up at us and chuckles to his companion, "Look at those old women--those old goats above the fjord. " "No," we echo back, "we are not old goats. We are the mountains who carry the old goats on our backs." My two sisters and I speak of a womanhood that is born from flesh and stone, one that is both fecund and fierce. We hang our colored flags through the hills, joyfully declaring our presence in swaths of blood red and nursery blue.

The Episode Wherein Krisanne and Curly Haired Boy Brave The Big City

2011-10-06T19:20:00.000-07:00

New York! Oh that delicious delicious city. CHB and I are home again, and it feels like a blink--a quick gust of wind--and now it's gone. Isn't it funny how a trip across country can, once you've returned, feel light years away?

A view of Chelsea from the High Line

Our days consisted of much eating, shopping, walking, museum strolling, concert going, and subway riding (which inspired CHB's musing, "They should make these subway rides more like roller coasters. More dips and dives...and twists." I totally agree).

I loved the mosaic street signs in the subway stations

Subway Feet

One of the very few times...

we took a moment to rest.

Although this wasn't my first time in New York City, I was reminded of the spectacular diversity of the people here. In one subway car there seemed to be 12 different countries represented; 20 different languages click clack ticking in my ears; every shade of peach, brown and black; and the most amazing hair. Oh, the hair. Have you seen the Brooklyn dwelling women with their out-to-here 'fros? Stunning.

Lovely ring baubles at the Brooklyn Flea Market. This is my visual metaphor for ethnic diversity (because I didn't have the courage to actually take a picture of those beautiful afro women)

One of the highlights of the trip was our MOMA visit. This was my first experience within those hallowed halls, and I think it made a woman out of me. Yes, I am almost certain that I am officially a woman now. It is incredible to see--in person--the art you've poured over for years.

I think my milkmaid braids fit in quite nicely with these pink jersey cows.

A color explosion!

Another highlight of the trip was the food which also made a (slightly chubbier) woman out of me. We ate potato, zucchini and cauliflower pizzas, Japanese ramen (that tasted just like the ramen I ate in Japan), Chinese beef noodles, Cambodian pork sandwiches, caramel corn ice cream, peanut butter ginger chews and on and on and on! The loveliest meal, though, was with CHB's parents who came out during the last two days of our trip. They treated us to a show stopping lunch at Gotham Bar and Grill.

Stomach and spirits filled after a lunch at the Gotham Bar and Grill

Slurping Japanese noodles at Tabata

The best bakery in NYC (according to the very knowledgeable CHB and co.)

About to dig in to my bean and cheese pupusas at the Brooklyn Flea market

And of course, a trip to the city wouldn't be complete without the musical razzmatazz. CHB and I went to New York with the express purpose of seeing one of our favorite musicians perform. Jose James is a jazz singer whose voice will break your heart and put it back together again. We sat in a small club, just a few feet away from Jose, and I wanted to cry fat bubble tears into my Bar-B-Que ribs. It was that moving. We also sat several more feet away from Bernadette Peters in a performance of Follies on Broadway. If I look that good at 62 years old...

Waiting for Follies to start. Peek-a-boo!

At the risk of sounding deliriously cheesy, the tallest and cutest part of the trip was CHB. He is a wonderful traveling companion--open, curious, street smart, and selfless (aka he doesn't get too put out by my well seasoned bossiness).

If CHB's personality could be reduced to five words, it would be these: Keep Calm and Carry On

CHB, you are the yang to my yin.

I couldn't have asked for a better big city adventure with anyone other than this utterly delight-full man.

The Biggest Apple

2011-09-28T19:21:00.000-07:00

CHB and I are off to the BIG APPLE tomorrow! I'll be back in a week to share our exploits and adventures (which I'm hoping will include pizza as big as my face and a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge).

Tickled and Thrilled

2011-09-28T19:14:00.000-07:00

Today I am tickled and thrilled by the existence of...

Cosmic Love
Electric
Blue
Longing

Odwalla Strawberry Banana Smoothie
Sweet
Breakfasty
Perfection

Keri Smith
Breath In
The World
Anew

Milkmaid Braids
Simple
Romantic
Girlish

Baggu
Earth Friendly
Grocery Friendly
Fox Friendly

Validation

2011-09-26T17:26:00.000-07:00

Thank you everyone for your votes of confidence, relfections and suggestions. Hearing from you means so much to me. When we put ourselves out there, we need that extra boost every once in awhile, don't you think? In honor of the very human need for validation, here is a clever clip on that very subject. The first 2 minutes are stinkin' cute and communicate this theme perfectly. (Thanks for the link, Kalisha!)

Confessions Of This Bottari Blogger

2011-09-25T16:15:00.000-07:00

I think it is time to swallow my pride and admit that I'm feeling a little bit insecure about the ol' blog these days. I measure my blog's success by the amount of comments I get on a post and by how many followers google reader tells me I have (whether or not this is a good way to measure blog success is up for debate). My goodness I wish I were self-confident enough not to give one wit about how many people read my blog. But the truth is I feel vulnerable sometimes. Please forgive me for this. I really want my writing to be engaging and meaningful for those who follow Bottari. I want to create a community. I think the best way to do this is to find out from you, astute reader, what it is that moves you. What do you like already about Bottari? What would you like to read more of? What needs a little bit of work or should be scrapped altogether?

I hope this isn't too bold or self-absorbed (well as un-self-absorbed as you can get in blog culture), but I figure the only way for me to feel better about this blog is to communicate with those who are invested in it: my readers. I would really appreciate your honest--and I do mean honest--feedback.

For those of you who regularly comment on my blog or connect with me personally about Bottari, thank you. I can't begin to tell you how much that means to me. It always, always makes my day lighter.

Some Things Lovely (From The Web This Week)

2011-09-25T13:13:00.000-07:00

Moon drawings by Galileo

Something decorative for your wall (via Maiya)

Something pastel for your fingertips (via Design Mom)

Something astronomical for your bedroom (via A Cup of Jo)

Something Nordic for your fall wardrobe (via SFStyle)

Something heroic for your grandparents (via Honestly WTF)

The Episode Wherein Krisanne Climbs A Mountain (Metaphorically And Otherwise)

2011-09-24T20:48:00.000-07:00

Not my picture. Some nice person's picture from the internet.

My single friends and I joke about our menstrual cramps. We say that our cramps are screams of protest coming from our unfertilized eggs. "How dare you waste me!" (cramp, cramp). It's funny. It's the kind of funny that masks the rather sharp pain women of a certain age feel who are not married and wish to be. Women who are not pressing a babe to their breast and wish they could. Enter the jokes. If you can't laugh at yourself, you end up sobbing yourself into a melted mess of snot and drippy mascara, as they say.

I was never one of those women who dreamed of being a mother. I didn't play with my dolls in the anticipation of one day trading in their cloth and yarn bodies for real ones of flesh and bone. Even when I was married I never felt drawn to motherhood, which could have had something to do with the not-so-nice man to whom I was hitched. But maybe not. At times I wondered if there were something wrong with me. That I was missing some sliver of DNA that says, "A part of your heart will remain hollow just as your womb. When womb is filled, so heart will be also." Despite this perplexity, for the entirety of my 20s I felt generally content with my minimal interest in motherhood.

Now I am 32 years old, unmarried and childless, and for the first time in my life the wound is starting to smart. I am suddenly fascinated by childbirth because it's the closest I can get to experiencing something so profound and primal. I eagerly solicit birthing stories from friends who have given birth recently, and I am captivated. I am captivated by, what seems to me, the most unbelievable endeavor any human being could undertake. After the captivation, when I'm alone, I am crying. I cry because I feel sorry for myself. I cry because it's not me bearing down through the pain of labor. It's not me looking into a newborn face I helped illustrate. It's not me holding a baby to my tired breast.

Today, I climbed the most difficult mountain I have ever climbed. It was 2 hours of straight up augmented by slippery shale and paper thin air. For a portion of the hike I was scared of falling off of the mountain, and for another portion of the hike I was afraid my legs would give out beneath me. It was so difficult, but in the end I made it (mostly I made it...I collapsed about 15 minutes from the top but I'm still going to call it a success). At the top of the mountain, I was gifted with one of the most beautiful views in all of Provo. As you might have expected, I will now draw the obvious Mormon sacrament talk parallel; being in my 30s sans husband and child is my difficult mountain to climb. I feel scared of never reaching that summit, of slipping down the face of the cliff and birthing nothing more than a bruised and bloody heart. I fear that my legs will give out beneath me, and I will give up the endeavor all together. In my literal climb up the mountain today, I made it to the top. I made it. So this is the faith I cling to: I really hope that I make it metaphorically, too. And I really really hope that the view will be every shade of divine.

Dancing On A Very Small Island

2011-09-23T06:28:00.001-07:00

Brian Kershisnik, Dancing on a Very Small Island, 2007

If you ever invite me to dance on a very small island with you, I will say "Yes, of course, I thought you would never ask!" Our feet will greet the spongy earth with toes eager to kiss the grass and pebbled mud. We will hold hands a little bit sticky with sweat because that's what happens when you swing so boldly through song. A fisherman on his boat will laugh, "Dance like Matisse!" and then snap in approval as we link our nimble fingers and weave our jaunty limbs. We will skip around the edge of the island with velvet peach feet and black rubber boots, waking the sleeping worms below. It is only a matter of time and we slip--our dance is baptized, awash in Prussian blue. What a joy and surprise to dance on a very small island with you!

Tickled and Thrilled

2011-09-22T17:30:00.000-07:00

Today I am tickled and thrilled by the existence of...

Alexander McQueen
Inventive
Sexy
Gasp

The Burning House
Poignant
Personal
Object Stories

Fish Tacos
Crispy
Lime
Tongue Treat

Zooey Dechanel
Quirky
Blue Eyed
Girl Crush

Halfway to Jackson
Toe Tapping
Honky Tonk
Goodness

A Solitary, Superhero Of A Soul

2011-09-20T19:02:00.000-07:00

I love to be alone. I love to walk the quieter paths and listen to the crunch and scrape my boots make on the pavement. Walking alone gives me time to talk to my thoughts and, in turn, offer them an opportunity to surprise and provoke me. Getting so caught up in this brainheart conversation sometimes makes me a little drunk and unaware of my surroundings. I always mess with the hangnail on my thumb or pick at my chapped lips when I'm curled up inside of myself. I think this painful grooming is my body's plea for attention; her reminder that I'm still here, still scraping my boots along the pavement, still visible to the tangible world.

Walking alone like this, my body and brain both competing for my attention, I start to wonder how it is that I can exist in two places at once. I exist in an earthbound frame sewn loosely from pieces of carbon and dust but I also exist in a heavenbound soul animated by light and divine breath. I am in both of these places at once. I am a superhero. I am a solitary, superhero of a soul.

But even my solitary, superhero of a soul (and yours) needs a companion at last--another superhero who leaves in his wake a trail of carbon, dust, light, and divine breath. Someone to scrape along the pavement with me and get so caught up in conversation that both he and I are a little drunk and unaware of our surroundings. A companion that compels me to stop the painful grooming of my outside self because his existence is all the reminder I need that I'm still here, still being brave, still holding my heart visible to this glorious, tangible world.

Some Things Lovely (From The Web This Week)

2011-09-17T19:45:00.000-07:00

Alexander Calder, Three Worms and a New Moon, 1949

Something tribal (via Honestly WTF)

Something plum yummy (via My New Roots)

Something glossy (via Maiya)

Something lunar (via Design Mom)

Something bookish (via Hilda Grahnat)

Nude With Oranges

2011-09-16T13:55:00.000-07:00

Henri Matisse, Nude With Oranges, 1951

The night before the big decision, did Eve endure a restless sleep? Did she dream that soft, fat oranges toppled onto her head, their sticky juices gluing her eyelashes together? Did she dream that Adam put an orange peel in his mouth so that when he smiled he looked like a monkey? I wonder if she fashioned the waxy orange leaves to cover her nakedness, embarrassed in the same way we get embarrassed when we dream about showing up to class in our underwear. Did she toss and turn on a bed of citrus, certain that whatever decision she made the following morning would change the arch of humankind forever? Did she want to crawl inside of an orange, cushioned by its pulpy flesh, and melt into the soft pillows of sweet instead of facing the inquiring snake? Did she wonder if she could better attain salvation curled inside the heart of an orange than she could toiling outside of Eden?

Tickled and Thrilled

2011-09-15T13:46:00.000-07:00

Today I am tickled and thrilled by the existence of...

Craft in America

Lavender Cookies

Charles Bradley

Scarlet Town

Wild Geese

Some Things Lovely (From The Web This Week)

2011-09-11T00:17:00.000-07:00

Something vintage (via A Cup of Jo)

Something gummyliscious (via Oh Joy!)

Something whimsical (via Honestly WTF)

Something adorable (via Kendi Everyday)

Something elevated (via Honestly WTF)

Roaring Garden

2011-09-09T05:33:00.000-07:00

Eva Wylie, Roaring Garden, 2008

When I feel like a prayer has hit the ceiling and fallen clumsily back onto my head, I try to remember that the universe is not cold and black metaled. It is not stained opaque by indifference or despair (as some existentialists would have you believe). No, the universe is full of spark and crimson fire. Stars and sun and hot molten planets explode like autumn, searing their laced, leafy veins into the ether. When I feel like my vision is choked, I try to remember that the universe is not stillborn and breathless. It is an eruption of blushing sex and flush creation. It is birth, transcendence and expansion. It is a roaring garden that sows my becoming.

I Like To Hold His Hand Most Of All

2011-09-06T21:54:00.000-07:00

I like to hold his hand most of all. I like the way our fingers flirt with each other, wrapping and unwrapping until they settle into a comfortable tangle. I like the simple and intimate press of our palms into a chaste and muted kiss. To me, a hand hold feels holy. Is it because hands are so often moving about in sacred ways?

We press our palms together in prayer hoping that our supplication will shoot like lightening from our fingers into the soft heart of God.
We send love from across the room, packaged in a kiss blown and bouncing from our fingertips.
We lay our palms on a quaking back to help the grief pass from inside to out.
We bury our knuckles into ballooning dough that will be baked and offered to the bellies of those we love.

Our hands engage in one million holy movements during the course of a day, and I've only named a few. Of all of these holy movements, I like to hold his hand most of all.

Tickled and Thrilled

2011-09-06T06:42:00.000-07:00

Today I am tickled and thrilled by the existence of...

This American Life
Ira Glass.
Endearing Voice.
Resonate Stories.

Buttermilk Pancakes
Grandma's Specialty.
Childhood Memories.
Homemade Jam.

Bag Balm
Soothing Lips.
Nighttime Ritual.
Bang for your Buck.

Billboard Poetry Project
Healing Words.
Billboards Repurposed.
Meditative Driving.

Alex Webb
Photography.
Guileless and Stark.
Beauty in Pain.

To Come Together In The Unknowing

2011-09-05T11:13:00.000-07:00

The Good Samaritan, Ferdinand Hodler, 1886

This weekend I went to my first Timpanogos Storytelling Festival--an annual gathering where storytellers from all over the country (world?) come to share their tales at a small park in Provo Canyon. I attended one remarkable storytelling by NPR correspondent Kevin Kling. In his introduction, Kevin talked about the fundamental role of storytelling. Ostensibly, he said, we tell stories to answer questions. Our myths and sacred texts give us answers about the why, where, and how come of our existence. But, more importantly than giving answers, our stories serve to remind us of our common humanity. We tell stories to understand each other, to bear our neighbor's burdens, to forgive and seek forgiveness. Stories unite this grand human community of which we are all a part.

This got me thinking about Jesus Christ as storyteller. No doubt, he could spin yarns with the best of them. In discussions at church we try to find the answers buried within his parables. What did Christ mean when he referenced the ten virgins? What does the pearl of great price symbolize? Is the meaning of life packaged neatly within descriptions of the Good Samaritan and Prodigal Son? Christ's stories are instructional, yes. They present us with the moral blueprints by which we are to design our lives. But I wonder if his parables were ultimately intended to awaken us to our common human experience. As with the ten virgins, we all feel woefully unprepared for life at times and at other times feel like we are click clicking through our days with minimal effort. We all know how it feels to look the other way as our neighbor suffers and yet we are also intimately acquainted with the deep edification of the Good Samaritan as we mourn with those who mourn. We've all struggled to fully accept the traditions of our mothers and fathers and we also know the sweet release the Prodigal Son felt when he was restored to those things he once rejected.

Our stories remind us that we are united in the seeking. We come together in the unknowing. We hold the questions in our hands and support each other as we try to unravel some meaning to this messy human experience. If developing empathy is the fundamental purpose of storytelling (as opposed to providing definitive answers), I think it is imperative that we tell our stories honestly. Let's trash (and I mean TRASH) the facades we create for the benefit of the world out there. Let's invest our energy in expanding compassion instead of expending it in trying to look more accomplished, more put together, or more perfect than we really are. I really believe that in sharing our stories honestly, we open ourselves up to the healing of self and others. We all know how it feels to realize that we are not the only ones who struggle, doubt, and spin off our tracks--it's such a comfort! Such a relief! Personally, I feel less of a pariah and more able to tackle my demons when I don't feel alone in my hurting.

This must mean that to share our stories honestly is to involve ourselves with the real work of charity--we are engaging in an act where we seek to be known and seek to know others in equal measure. Perhaps this is what Christ intended all along. In this space of knowing, we inevitably love more deeply, forgive more quickly, and rejoice more easily in this divine adventure of being human.

Some Things Lovely (From The Web This Week)

2011-09-03T02:53:00.000-07:00

Kunio Kaneko, Red Red Tree and Blue Blue Sky, 2006

Something undulating (via MAIYA)

Something anatomical (via Book By Its Cover)

Something peanut buttery (via Sterling Style)

Something kimono chic (via The Sartorialist)

Something mossy (via Design Mom)

Tickled and Thrilled

2011-09-01T23:35:00.000-07:00

Today I am tickled and thrilled by the existence of...

Johnny Cash

Baby Ducks

Australian Black Licorice

Ferris Wheels (at night)

Hope II

2011-08-31T19:53:00.000-07:00

Gustav Klimt, Hope, II, 1907-08

I lean back in bed with my leg draped across my knee. I inhale, wide eyed, at the thought that within my body lies infinite abundance. Inside this corporeal encasement--ever subject to scrapes and breaks and potent death--live the seeds of eternity. As any spiritual text worth its salt will tell you: inviting abundance into our lives is a matter of prayer. First is the prayer of two bodies merged: arms reaching, eyes closed, a breath, a declaration. Nine months pass and then comes the prayer of new bodies birthed. Sons and daughters slip like fish from beneath kaleidoscope robes, emerging into the world with arms reaching, eyes closed, a breath, a declaration. And so it goes that our variegated life line cuts unapologetic through a universe flecked gold and green, carving an eternal familial fissure into the speckled space. Our lineage now and forever embedded like jewels humming within the silent cosmos. Ever present in this cycle, from conception to death to beyond, is the prayer of all bodies blessed: An invocation over the human form. A celestial consecration. A Mother uttering gratitude for the manifestation of Her boundlessness. Arms reaching. Eyes closed. A breath. A declaration.

Some Things Lovely (From The Web This Week)

2011-08-27T19:14:00.000-07:00

www.kittywigs.com

Something braided (via A Cup of Jo)

Something kittyliscious (via Calivintage)

Something Crayola (via Design Mom)

Something mid-century (via Sensibly Styled)

Something nutty (via My New Roots)

Something cayenne (via Oh Joy!)

Ekphrasis: Poetry Confronting Art

2011-08-24T22:12:00.000-07:00

Ekphrasis: Poetry confronting art.

About a year ago, I started a blog called A Paper Moth. It was a space for me to write poetic, emotional responses to works of art that I liked. In an effort to streamline and simplify, I've decided to put A Paper Moth to sleep and continue writing ekphrasis here at Bottari. Really, who doesn't like one stop shopping? Before I wax any more poetic, I will first repost all of my previous ekphrasis entries here. I wrote this one for CHB on his birthday last January:

Marc Chagall, Birthday, 1915

What is it to love you? It is my tongue pressing a small piece of strawberry cake to the roof of my mouth (to extend the pleasure of a sweet and fleeting moment). It is my nose inhaling perfumed and gold flecked flowers while my hand grips dripping root and displaced earth. It is my body/your body stretching, bending, twisting as we try to reach needs both spoken and silent. It is the hue of mourning as marked in your ash complexion and my black taffeta dress (with folds crisp enough to hold our past pains and hopes-not-realized). It is my foot over foot over foot stumbling as I try to meet your lips oh so very close almost there. To love you is to labor, to exhale between tensions, to push forward, now floating. It is a celebration (a birthday) for in you I am reborn. For through this we are transformed.

The Archeology Of Love

2011-08-11T18:32:00.000-07:00

I asked a friend recently what he loved about his love. His response:

I love her quick temper. Her curly hair.
I love that her lower lip is bigger than her top lip.
I love her potato toes.
I love the way her voice sounds like dripping water when she whispers to me over the phone.

I couldn't stop thinking about his response. It was so charming. So poetic. I was moved by a description so intimate and particular to her. Our love for someone really is buried in the details of their humanness. Of course we love the big things like the kindness and the sense of humor. But we also love the small things like the way they scrunch up their nose when they're in deep concentration or when they lick their top lip for no particular reason at all. It is an archeologists' task to love someone isn't it? Seeking, unearthing and then reveling in all of the pieces and parts that make them so wholly and ineffably divine.

Am I Normal?

2011-07-25T14:02:00.000-07:00

This was one of the first images that came up on Google when I typed in the word "lonely." M.J., like many of us, no doubt suffered from loneliness and hormone problems.

Do you love how the title of this post sounds like a Judy Blume novel or the title for a 1980s sex education pamphlet? Truth be told, I do want to talk about sex. Sort of. Mostly I want to talk about what it means to be a woman and the hormonal bedlam that occurs inside of our bodies once a month. And when I say bedlam I mean it in the most explicit way possible: emotional chaos, detonated b*tch bombs shooting off shards of neurosis and impatience. In essence, I turn into an angry black woman complete with my own litany of "heeeeeelllll no's!" and "oh no you di'ints"!

Mostly, I want to talk about feeling lonely because, for me, this is the most difficult side effect of having estrogen dart through my body once a month. During that...special...time, I feel really lonely. And invisible. And inconsequential. Of course I am not alone! Of course I am unique! Of course I am consequential! says my rational brain. But it just.

doesn't.

feel.

that.

way.

I want to take an informal poll and find out from my women readers: Have you felt this way, too, during your lady time? How do you deal with these feelings? And, in the spirit of Judy Blume, am I normal?

An Evening With Fleet Foot and Foxy

2011-07-23T10:43:00.000-07:00

Last night CHB and I cashed in on his birthday gift to me--tickets to the Fleet Foxes at the Red Butte Garden Amphitheater. As far as I'm concerned all concerts everywhere should be performed at outdoor venues on balmy summer evenings.

Photo courtesy of SSG Music

After taking care of a flat tire on our way to the concert, we arrived just in time to meet up with CHB's sister and brother-in-law for the opening act, Alela Diane. Diane is a Portlander (shout out) who sounds like this gorgeous, melodic mix of Gillian Welch and Karen Dalton.

I'm Fleet Foot (because I'm quick and nimble and light on my feet) and CHB is Foxy (because he was born that way)

Our oh-so-foxy concert companions, CHB's sister and her husband

My favorite parts of the evening included watching local celebrity Doug Fabrizio and his wife rock out to the music and the band's mid-concert-request for scrunchies to keep their hair from blowing in the wind. Oh, had I a scrunchy, I would have thrown it on the stage with reckless abandon.

Our fleet feet

All in all, CHB and I had a grand ol' time. He did konk out towards the end of the evening though, which I think was his way of saying, "They're good, but they're no Indigo Girls."

The Episode Where CHB and Krisanne Survive Rock Canyon!

2011-07-16T19:12:00.000-07:00

Ok, so there wasn't really anything to "survive" except for the unidentifiable rat-rabbit hybrid who puttered around our campsite hoping to partake of our tin foil dinners as well as the embarrassment of two male hikers unwittingly sneaking up on me mid-pee. I feel sorry for me. I feel sorrier for them. As for the title--just a cheap ploy to get your attention. Sorry.

In an earlier post written shortly after I set foot in the land of milk and honey, I hailed the merits of Utah Valley, praising everything from the Orem Public Library to hair-friendly low humidity to Cafe Rio. Well, I now have one more merit to add to the list: gorgeous wilderness 10 minutes from my house. "10 minutes?", you ask incredulously. Yes! 10 minutes!

Yesterday, CHB and I decided to leave behind the bustling metropolis that is Provo for a wilderness adventure in Rock Canyon. Here are a few photos from our Friday evening escapades.

This is what happens when I try to fit my 5'3" self into a frame with CHB's 6'3" self.

CHB making our fire. That's my man.

Enjoying the fruits of CHB's labors.

Cool, artsy fire pic.

A bridge.

And a rock.

And, of course, the babbling brook.

Brother Brigham most definitely knew what he was doing when he deemed this stunning Utah wilderness, "the place."

Mystery and Communion

2011-07-11T17:30:00.000-07:00

This summer I'm participating in a photography exhibition that highlights material objects in women's lives. Each participant chooses an object they've inherited from a woman in their family and writes a short essay about the significance of the object. The essays will be displayed with photographs of the objects as well as photos of the mothers, grandmothers, great grandmothers...from whom the objects originated. I chose this quilt that my mom gave to me. The quilt began with my great great grandmother and has been passed down through five generations.

My essay:

This quilt originated with my great great grandmother who passed it down to her daughter, my great grandmother, who passed it down to her daughter and so on through five generations until it was passed down to me. I stretch out on my stomach with feet kicked up, running my fingers across the colorful squares of quilted fabric. I trace the mint green tulips and pink palm leaves; my imagination weaves fairy tales about the white crescent moons and tangerine suns. Such storytelling is inevitable with a quilt like this. Each block of fabric has a history to uncover. A blue elephant donning a top hat and cane dances across the lower edge. Did this jaunty pachyderm once tap tap tap across a baby blanket? In the center of the quilt a universe of creamy white stars melts into a seafoam sky. Did this space scape once glow and pulse within the curtains of a young boy’s room? Several small squares are saturated in maroon with audacious bursts of white. Were these popping dots proudly worn by a young woman on her first day of high school? The colors and shapes of each square reveal a history--a personal narrative nestled beneath the arc of a line or hidden within a deep shade of green. And yet, when joined together, these variegated pieces of fabric form a grand visual narrative and a collective human history. The quilt uses her language of color and form to speak of birth and growth, passage and curiosity, mystery and communion.

Still tracing my fingers along the quilt, I am awed by the realization that this blanket stitches together the lives of five women. When I get up in the morning and fold my quilt, I think of my mom’s hands folding the quilt and my grandmother’s hands and my great grandmother’s hands and my great great grandmother’s hands. We are all echoes of each other, our movements a response to the previous generation’s call. And when I wrap myself in the quilt at night, I am visited by the gentle, ghostly forms of my matriarchal line who remind me from where I came. We are separate and we are one. We are living and we are dead. The curve and hue of our experiences are different. And yet, when joined together, our varied lives form a grand narrative that speaks distinctly of indomitable womanhood.

Butterflies, He Gives Me

2011-06-27T20:06:00.000-07:00

Learning Our Stories

2011-06-14T19:06:00.000-07:00

Since writing my 'Coming Out' post a couple of weeks ago, I've experienced a great deal of concern and some anger from people I deeply care about. I expected this and although it has felt a bit emotionally overwhelming, I think it's been important for me. If nothing else, it has forced me to really examine why I feel the way I feel and to find better ways to articulate those feelings. I wanted to post an excerpt from an email I sent to a friend recently that better explains why I've chosen to support gay rights.

Excerpt:

"I have a couple of very close friends who are both gay and actively Mormon. I have known them for several years and their experience is quite similar to other gay members of the church in that they feel torn between two identities: being Mormon and being gay. In our church culture, it is very difficult to reconcile the two. Even though we often hear "hate the sin, love the sinner", there is enough "being gay is an abomination" rhetoric among members that these gay men have felt embarrassment and shame about who they are as individuals. Grappling with this self-hatred while feeling rejected by church and family communities often leads to the reckless sexual experimentation and self-destructive behavior (including suicide) that has plagued the gay community for so long. As Mormon poet Carol Lynn Pearson so eloquently put it, "We throw them in the gutter and then shame them for getting dirty."

I know that these feelings my gay friends have run deeper than a mere desire for sex. These are longings for a romantic connection that includes emotional, physical and spiritual union. So even if a gay member of the church chooses to follow the council to remain celibate, there is still a very real and painful void that remains when that person also feels that they can't have any kind of relationship that is emotionally and spiritually fulfilling even if it doesn't involve sex.

There is a great amount of tension that gay members face when trying to be honest about their identity, find loving relationships, and still remain close to the gospel and their LDS family members. It seems to me to be a no win situation. I do believe that the Atonement can cradle and guide them. I also believe that as members of this powerful church community, we can do much better in seeking to understand and support them.

This doesn't entirely address my support of gay marriage other than to say that I feel very strongly that giving all people, regardless of their sexual orientation, the right to join in committed, monogamous relationships is an act of love and dignity. It's also one of the most conservative requests the gay community has ever made--a community that is often stereotyped as being promiscuous and lewd. I suppose the other option is to demand that all gay people the world over remain celibate and alone which doesn't make much sense to me. I understand that the deeper issue is the fact that my stance may be at odds with the prophet's council to only support marriage between a man and a woman, and I suppose that is up to me and the Lord to reconcile."

So there we are. I think most of all we, as human beings, in all of our frail, brave, cruel and glorious states, just want to be understood. We want our stories to be heard and our longings to be respected. In supporting the gay community, I am trying to be one more person who stops to listen.

Coming Out

2011-05-28T19:13:00.000-07:00

Next weekend I'm devoting my Saturday to the Utah Pride Festival. Every year, members of the LGBT community gather in Salt Lake City to celebrate and endorse equal rights. I will be among those in celebration.

In light of this upcoming festival, it is time for me to come out of the closet regarding my feelings about homosexuality:

I support the LGBT community with no reservations--this includes a whole-hearted support of gay rights including gay marriage.

It is scary for me to come out on my blog as I know that what I write here will be read by friends and others who passionately disagree with my convictions and may think less of me. It is always difficult to wonder if those closest to us will reject us or worse, patronize us, for speaking our truth. Many of the gay and lesbian men and women I associate with have navigated their way through a terrifying and often arduous coming-out process. I believe that straight allies of the LGBT community have their own coming out process. Perhaps not as gut wrenching, but certainly daunting in its own right.

As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, I am particularly sensitive to sharing my feelings surrounding gay rights. Many, if not most, members of my religious community believe that homosexuality is a sin and NOT ordained of God. I do not share these beliefs but rather feel that gay men and lesbian women bring gifts to the spiritual table that have the potential to transform us all--gay and straight alike. Some Mormon friends I've talked with about these issues have been concerned for my spiritual welfare and membership in the church. As well meaning as it is, such concern angers me as it suggests that I am confused and a stranger to my own spirituality. I know that despite the torrential energy of opposition, there comes a point when all of us must find the courage to be honest about who we are and the direction in which our heart points.

I have a handful of close friends who are both gay and devoted to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Their courage, humility and sensitivity to the Spirit is what inspired me, ultimately, to devote my energy to this cause. To them I offer oceans of gratitude for gifting me with enough confidence to say the things that are difficult to say.

Gasp!

2011-05-23T19:11:00.000-07:00

I'm up for a breath of air! This is a small breath that will allow me to say only this: I have very little time for life beyond my job right now. My hours are measured by one task and then another and then another. I wish it weren't so, but it is so. I will get back to blogging when I can figure out how to carve out some room for the simple things that make my heart happy. P.S. Thank you for your concern, Dave! :)

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

2011-04-02T18:29:00.000-07:00

Athena, Goddess of War

Life has been a little too harried lately. Too much chatter and clatter and clamber. Too much movement even for me who can't seem to keep my feet from dancing and twitching at any given moment. I attribute this to the new job I started at the Salt Lake Art Center. Although I love a million little things about the job (the hard working, kind and ferociously intelligent staff, the vibration and energy of an arts environment, the ritualized gestures of the workday: packing my lunch, wearing my fancy clothes), mostly I'm overwhelmed. Over-my-head-whelmed. I understand that part of this comes with new job territory. Yes. But I'm also feeling quite acutely that I'm not cutting it--that the skills and background that I bring to the work table aren't up to par. Feeling this way is monumentally difficult for me. So much of my identity and sense of self-worth is tied up in my academic and career success that when I flail and fail in either of these realms I get very grouchy and very existential (Ask poor CHB who has been patiently attending to my brooding self with positive affirmations and small acts of kindness).

Tired of the brooding, I've decided to organize an internal revolution to oust my ego from its hallowed seat. I want to learn how to beat back my need for external validation so that I can unearth that inside piece of me that speaks resolutely of my intrinsic worth. I think the fight will be bloody and long, but most successful revolutions are such. I've chosen this quote by Marianne Williamson to be my battle mantra:

"Our power doesn't lie in our resume or our connections. Our power doesn't lie in what we've done or even in what we're doing. Our power lies in our clarity about why we're on the earth. We'll be important players if we think that way. And the important players of the coming years will be the people who see themselves as here to contribute to the healing of the world."

What do you think of this quote? How do you cultivate a deeper understanding of your intrinsic worth?
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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Japanese (via all the mountains)

*Something Tron (via Dezeen)

*Something Zen (via Upon A Fold)

Moustache Series #1

2011-03-23T07:55:00.000-07:00

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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Floral (via Famille Summerbelle)

*Something Topographical (via Art Hound)

*Something Golden (via DesignLoveFest)

Addendum: Some Things Lovely

2011-03-19T07:28:00.000-07:00

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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Stamped (via Upon A Fold)

*Something Tucker (via Art Hound)

*Something Criminal (via all the mountains)

That Smoldering, Spherical Heart

2011-03-19T06:45:00.000-07:00

Shannon McCarthy, Prayer, 2007

"Prayer...brings together two lovers, God and the soul."

--Mechthild of Magdeburg

Prayer presents herself in countless forms. She is head bowed and knees bent. Breath in and breath out. She is two happy arms swimming through the air and grasping at the trees. She is a call out to the universe and a whisper into the heart. Prayer is the foundational element of our spiritual lives no matter where we fall on the religious spectrum. She is no respecter of persons.

I dress up in many of prayer's forms. I press my hands and face to the ground and imagine that my supplications reverberate through each layer of earth--crust, mantle, core--to reach the fiery center of God. As I wait with hands and face to the ground, God speaks from that smoldering, spherical heart. The message travels back up through crust, mantle, core, and into skin, muscle, and bone to reach the fiery center of me. This is the path of my revelation.

Addendum: Some Things Lovely

2011-03-15T15:35:00.000-07:00

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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Humanitarian (via Upon A Fold)

*Something Unexpected (via Cakies)

*Something Watercolored (via Bloesem)

Her Grace Kelly Nose

2011-03-15T15:19:00.000-07:00

I have a question for my women friends: Do you ever get jealous of other women? I do. Not frequently, but just often enough to instantly recognize that queasy, fist-in-your-throat feeling. Maybe it's her wildly successful career or delicate Grace Kelly nose or seemingly endless reserves of get-up-and-go. Regardless of what triggers it, once jealousy has wrapped itself alien-like across my face, I feel suffocated and paralyzed and angry. I feel like this:

Jealousy is parasitic. It consumes healthy perspective and a realistic sense of self. And it seems to feed on us most voraciously when men are involved. This afternoon I was looking through some old journals and found an entry I had written during a time in my life when I felt hugely jealous of another woman. I had no information about her except for two facts: 1. She was a tall glass of Heidi Klum flavored water. 2. She was friends with a guy I had a huge crush on. These two facts were enough to send me into a wild, assumption laden frenzy that wrecked havoc on my emotional well being. In an attempt to regain some internal balance and common sense for crying out loud, I decided to write something from my core, something that did not belong to nor was associated in any way with jealousy. I wrote:

"Other women are not your enemy. They are composed of gifts and fears just like you. They long for companionship and warmth just like you. They cry and feel wounded just like you. If a man chooses another woman over you, rejoice for her. It is not the end of her struggle, but it has filled something needed in her life. The experience of not being chosen has filled something needed in your life as well."

So maybe it's helpful to avoid casting other women as "other" and instead remember that they, in many ways, are just like us. Furthermore, one woman's success can be enjoyed by us all as an advancement for womankind. When I say this it resonates, but it's very difficult for me to apply in real time. Does this resonate with you? If not, I want to know how you combat jealousy, and for those of you who never feel jealous I will bake you an apple pie shaped like Grace Kelly's nose.

One Good Kiss...

2011-03-11T21:39:00.000-08:00

One good kiss...

deserves another.

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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Ceramic (via Unstitched)

*Something Valentino (via DesignLoveFest)

*Something Textiled (via Covet Garden Blog)

Innundir Skinni

2011-03-09T21:28:00.000-08:00

Over + over + over = how often I listen to this music. When watching this video I think of an Icelandic Julie Andrews ala The Sound of Music. I love her ruddy cheeks and the trills in her voice. I love her blue gingham dress and the way she says 'groovy'. I love the wash of fairy lights and her musician friend with the red beard. It all sits so very right.

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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Elevated (via Black*Eiffel)

*Something Russian (via Miss Moss)

*Something Rustic (via Wolf Eyebrows)

The Good, The Beautiful, And The Holy

2011-03-07T21:32:00.000-08:00

Gustav Klimt, The Three Ages of Woman, 1905

"Child of God, you were created to create the good, the beautiful and the holy. Do not forget this."

--A Course In Miracles

This fills me with a flutter from my stomach up to my throat. What a remarkable and audacious thing to say, and yet I believe it's true. We all carry divine DNA, and so it is embedded in our tendons and toes (and all of our 2,000 parts) to multiply goodness, to create beauty, to make holy. That is the purpose of our existence? Yes, I really think so. What do you think?

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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Parisian (via You Are My Fave )

*Something Regal (via The Impossible Cool)

*Something Orange (via Dezeen)

Anniversary

2011-03-06T11:13:00.000-08:00

Has it really been one year since I departed the land of kimchi, ancestor spirits, and all things bedazzled? Aigo!

Addendum: Some Things Lovely

2011-03-03T11:40:00.000-08:00

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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Dreamy (via Unstitched )

*Something Cinematic (via Covet Garden)

*Something Transkei (via Miss Moss)

The Rituals Of Sin

2011-03-03T11:24:00.000-08:00

A couple of days ago I watched Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus, a documentary about an alt-country musician's travels through the deep south--the juke box bars and two stop light towns south; the eggs over easy cafes and tattered confederate flags south; the come to Jesus or forever hold your peace in Hell south. What struck me the most was the vivid and unapologetic definition of morality within these Pentecostal communities; there seemed to be an almost mythical distinction between black and white, good and evil, and heaven and hell. A good portion of the film followed around those who didn't subscribe to their community's Christian ideal: the bar flies, the inmates, the sexy honky tonk bar dancers. The narrator said of those on the margins: "They bury their powerlessness in the rituals of sin."

I wonder about this idea of sin as it plays out on the personal stage. I'm not a big fan of the word 'sin' particularly because of the way in which it's often used. I think for many Christians, there is an albatross of guilt and shame that hangs heavy from that word so as to invite self-flagellation more often than divine restoration. The word 'sin' literally means "to miss the mark." For me, to sin is to mis-remember who I am; it is to aim my energy towards some thing that is inherently not divine, not godly, and thus not me. What is required to realign this misalignment? It is to re-member who I am; it is to re-invision myself as a member of all things holy; it is to re-orient myself with God through prayer, meditation, fasting, and studying sacred texts.

I also wonder about this idea of sin as it plays out on the collective stage. In qualifying someone else as a sinner, do we collapse the space and compassion necessary to help them re-invision themselves as a member of all things holy? By way of example, the phrase, "Hate the sin but love the sinner" is deeply problematic in part because it creates a false distinction between those who sin (them) and those who do not sin (us). The reality is that no such distinction exists. We all miss the mark on a consistent and frequent basis; we are all the same in this regard. In thinking about appropriations of the words 'sin' and 'sinner', I have to get painfully honest with myself. In my fear of being cast as a sinner, do I ever bury my authentic voice under saccharine notes of all-is-well-in-Zion? Do I ever push those members of my congregation I deem as "sinners" so far to the margins that they are forced to seek communion elsewhere? Do I ever exclude some members of my spiritual community from the rituals of godliness and then shame them for finding comfort in the rituals of sin? These are hard questions. I have to check myself. Constantly I have to check myself. What do you think?

When Life And I Are In Cahoots

2011-03-01T16:04:00.000-08:00

Henri Matisse, Le Dance, 1909

You know how life is composed of so many unexpected flubs, trips, and stumbles? You know how she never seems to tire of gifting us with "opportunities to grow"? You know how she is sometimes really really hard to get along with?

Yes, you know.

I would like to celebrate the fact that at this moment life and I are in cahoots. We are giggling and scheming. We are harmonious. She has infused joy in my dancing toes. I know this isn't permanent because I have 31 years under my belt. I know that there are always dips and curves to navigate (rightly so). But for now. For right now. I am happy through and through and through.

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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Collaged (via Book By Its Cover )

*Something Oriental (via Miss Moss)

*Something Lacey (via Upon A Fold)

Going West

2011-02-25T19:57:00.000-08:00

My friend Bryan brought this short film to my attention; I have an insatiable hunger for all things paper, and he is particularly good at quelling it with gems like this. It's a little bit magical and at parts feels like I'm riding on one of those rickety carts through a haunted carnival house.

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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Checkered (via Anonymous Works )

*Something Slippery (via Dezeen)

*Something Festive (via You Are My Fave)

Honoring The Integrity Of Our Experience

2011-02-24T12:47:00.000-08:00

Wassily Kandinsky, Composition VII, 1913

"We constantly resist not only our grief but also our wild passion and sexuality, our anger, even our exuberance and joy, repressing their free expression. Big feelings overwhelm us. They can easily upset the fragile equilibrium of our lives. We keep a lid on ourselves, till we periodically explode. We don't realize that any deep feeling, pleasurable or painful, can be a wave we surf home into ourselves, into love."
--Arjuna Ardagh

I was talking with CHB this morning and expressing some of the frustrations I'm experiencing in my life right now (CHB is one of my favorite go-to-friends because he is a good listener and reflective which in turn helps me sort out whatever disorder I'm trying to order). Instead of being present with my feelings, I was engaging in some good ol' fashioned self-flagellation with thoughts like, "If I were a better person, I wouldn't be feeling this way." CHB responded, "There is nothing to be ashamed of, we all get frustrated." It's true. We all burn a little too intensely, all ache a little too deeply, all desire a little too passionately, and all exclaim a little too loudly for the taste of our more balanced, prudent selves. But those big feelings are nothing to be ashamed of. If I can honor the integrity of my experiences without judgment or resistance, I think I stand a much better chance of moving through the world with more joy in my limbs and greater love in my heart. What do you think?

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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Instructional (via I Love Charts)

*Something Deconstructed (via Uppercase)

*Something Virginal (via Famille Summerbelle)

Curly Haired Boy Update

2011-02-22T08:19:00.000-08:00

Update: I'm still crazy about him. In case you were wondering.

P.S. I like this photo a lot. I like it because this was taken last Fall when the weather had that sweet and smokey flavor. I like it because I remember feeling pretty in my triangle dress. I like it because this was the very beginning with CHB, and so we were still a little awkward with each other, our movements still a little tentative. Recalling that awkwardness is both endearing and comforting (comforting because being with CHB now is so very not awkward--it's more like an exhale).

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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Soulful (via lovonthebeat)

*Something Orangesicle (via Dezeen)

*Something Illustrative (via Art Hound)

The Essential Existential Fact

2011-02-21T11:17:00.000-08:00

"Love is what we were born with. Fear is what we have learned here. The spiritual journey is the relinquishment--or unlearning--of fear and the acceptance of love back into our hearts. Love is the essential existential fact. It is our ultimate reality and our purpose on earth. To be consciously aware of it, to experience love in ourselves and others, is the meaning of life."

--Marianne Williamson, A Return to Love

I believe what Marianne Williamson says here: Our truest self (you know the way-down-deep-in-our-core self that's nestled beneath thick burlap layers of expectation and pretense) is composed of love. 100% solid gold love. How does knowing this change how you move through the world?

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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Compassionate (via TED)

*Something Variegated (via Wolf Eyebrows)

*Something Intricate (via Peter Callesen)

Birthday

2011-02-20T06:14:00.000-08:00

A new post (finally!) at A Paper Moth about the transformative and vulnerable experience of falling in love.

Birthday

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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Organic (via Book By Its Cover)

*Something Crafted (via Bloesem)

*Something Ordered (via Art Hound)

We Are Living From Mystery

2011-02-19T13:22:00.000-08:00

"Eating with the fullest pleasure — pleasure, that is, that does not depend on ignorance — is perhaps the profoundest enactment of our connection with the world. In this pleasure we experience and celebrate our dependence and our gratitude, for we are living from mystery, from creatures we did not make and powers we cannot comprehend." --Wendell Berry

I recently read two of Michael Pollen's books The Omnivore's Dilemma and In Defense of Food and have subsequently been thinking a lot about what an intimate act it is to eat. A spiritual act, even. When we eat, those things we put into our body literally become a part of us. Not only does the tangible stuff we ingest integrate itself into our cells and organs and blood but the intangible stuff settles into us as well; we embody the energy that went into the creation of that particular food which includes the well being or suffering of the animals we eat, the intentions and treatment of the farmers and the field workers, and the love (or lack thereof) of the person preparing the meal.

I had a very strong Impression a couple of days ago (this is capital 'I' impression which comes from God/Universe/the deepest part of me) that if I don't start making wiser choices about what I integrate into my body, my health will suffer serious consequences. Up to this point, I think I've been a little too flippant about such an intimate and spiritual act as eating. Some changes I want to make include consuming five servings of vegetables a day, drinking 64 oz of water, and offering a prayer of gratitude before every meal. Eventually, I would like to start shopping primarily from local food venues like farmer's markets, eat less meat, and spend more time cooking. I'm curious to know how you've made eating a more deliberate, healthy or spiritual act in your life...

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Some Things Lovely...

*Something Inspiring: The Pleasures of Eating

*Something Practical: Word of Wisdom Living

*Something Delicious: Mousakka, Berry Brulee & Vanilla Bean Ice Cream

The Best of What is Human in Us

2011-02-15T17:19:00.000-08:00

"As I see it, the essence of religious experience lies not in dogma but in poetry: in metaphor, in paradox, and yes, in uncertainty. That is, I think doubt is essential to faith. If you take a leap of faith, it really is a leap, a leap into the unknown...real faith is admirable because there’s a humility, a vulnerability to it. In much the same way you place your faith in a person, you can never be absolutely sure. This is what we mean by trust, and it strikes me as wonderful. Where certainty terrifies me, uncertainty seems to me to touch the best of what is human in us."

--Lesley Hazleton

Myth and Infrastructure

2011-01-26T23:26:00.000-08:00

Myth and Infrastructure 4 minute excerpts from Miwa Matreyek on Vimeo.

Have you ever experienced art so beautiful, so transcendent, and bursting with so much magic that you forget to breath and everything feels right in the world? I love art, but it's not often that I feel quite so deeply. Tonight, however, animator Miwa Matreyek swept my breath away (where it is still floating among the rafters at the Salt Lake Art Center). Above are some excerpts of her 17 minute performance. Watch how her shadow interacts with her animated projections. Totally. Utterly. Enchanting.

Happy Birthday, Curly Haired Boy!

2011-01-14T04:25:00.001-08:00

As is tradition in Curly Haired Boy's family, when each member of the family has a birthday, everyone dedicates a blog post to the esteemed birthday boy/girl. In honor of such a lovely tradition, I would like to dedicate this post to CHB.

Jacob, when I first saw you in church that Sunday afternoon in Korea, I was knocked plum off my pew by the Holy Spirit of God (or maybe it was the Holy Spirit of Hormones. It's hard to tell). With such a handsome man in my midst how could I do anything but exclaim

praisetheLordgloryhallelujah!!

Lucky for me, I came to know you and in knowing you found that you are far more than a pretty face. Your heart is where the real beauty lies--it is full, it is honest, it is kind, and it is brimming with the brand of integrity reserved for people like Honest Abe Lincoln and Buddhist monks. In knowing you, my own heart has grown fuller and kinder and more Zen like. What a gift you are. What a surprise. I am compelled once again to exclaim (with vigor!) PraisetheLordgloryhallelujah! Happiest of birthdays to you, J.

Christmas With The Curly Haired Boy

2011-01-05T08:11:00.001-08:00

I brought my camera to North Carolina with every intention of click click clicking my way through a lovely Christmas with the curly haired boy and his family. Alas, the camera sat cozy and nestled in my messenger bag for the duration of the trip except for a two hour layover in Balitmore where I took this gem.

You can buy these sperm shoes in the Sky Mall catalog. Why would you want sneakers with the "slick seed of life" logo so lovingly sewn into the side? Because it's cool!

Not all is lost due to my chronic camera neglect. Fortunately, curly haired boy has two sisters who are much better at click click clicking their way through a lovely Christmas than I. Please see the blog links below for their photos of our very delightful holiday:

Christmas Eve Eve

Christmas Eve

Christmas

P.S. I would like you to take special note of the shadow puppets curly haired boy and I made. Both of us being self-proclaimed non-drawers, we did pretty well, no? Darn tootin' we did.

Baby Making (aka This Is Your Lucky Day)

2010-12-15T11:52:00.001-08:00

Something new on my other blog A Paper Moth about the awesomeosity of baby making (but maybe a little more poetic).

You can read it here: Hope, II

Christmas Heaven Is Conan O'Brien's Dressing Room

2010-12-15T07:58:00.001-08:00

Ok wait. Conan and Zooey? Together? Making musical merriment? Have I died and gone to Christmas heaven? Me thinks, yes.

Zion

2010-12-10T11:49:00.000-08:00

Yesterday afternoon I read a poem about a mother who lost her teenage son in a drowning accident. By the end of the poem all of the emotion in my body (from stomach to heart to throat) made a grand and instant rush north to my tear ducts. For several minutes I ached. I felt cracked and bereaved. Somehow--in some metaphysical way--this mother's tsunami of grief had found its way into my body.

This morning, I read a blog post by a woman I admire but whom I've never met. She wrote "the past 3 weeks since my husband left me have been a whirlwind ..."

After decades of marriage, her husband left her?

I was still and quiet and disbelieving. Then, the tsunami. For those few minutes the emotional rush disorientated me; I felt jagged. Amputated. Alone. I have never met this woman, and she has no idea who I am, yet I was trying to manage the reverberating ache of her pain within my own body.

How does this happen? How is it that someone else's emotion becomes our collective experience? It's as if someone near us exhales and her sadness is a stowaway nestled among the particles of her breath. If we are present (physically or otherwise), we inhale her breath and then embody her heartache.

This afternoon my cell phone chirped. I looked down to see a picture of my best friend's baby boy, born just this morning. And there it was for the third time--that tsunami and those tears. But instead of distress I was washed over with wonder. I was filled. Elated. Her newborn gift was, in some very poignant way, my gift as well.

Come sorrow or joy, this capacity we have as humans to take upon ourselves the emotional depth of another person is a mystery for which I am ever grateful.

A Schedule! With A Smile! Hello World!

2010-12-08T14:37:00.000-08:00

It has been proven time and again that I don't do well without a schedule. With ample amounts of free time (as I'm loathe to confront these days) I do not, in fact, start my own non-profit organization dedicated to micro lending nor do I knit afghans for crippled mothers in Bosnia. No, instead I wear my pajamas until 3 pm and eat Grapenuts and Cheetos for lunch. To be fair, I do have some part time work which keeps me actively glued to the computer for a good portion of the day (while still honoring my penchant for 24 hour pajama pants and an all-carb diet). I also feel compelled to say that I do do some volunteer work lest you think I'm a total lump. I think perhaps I should carve out a schedule right here, online, of which the cyber community can bear witness. That way I'm accountable and can be motivated by good old fashioned guilt and peer pressure. My dream-but-soon-to-become-a-reality-schedule is as follows:

6:30 am Rise and shine! With a smile! Hello world!

7:00 am Exercise (I will go for a run With a smile! Hello world! or I will go hang out at the crusty gym near Provo High School With a smile! Hello world!)

8:00 am Meditate (Oooohhhmmmmm)

8:15 am Shower (Aaaaaaahhhhhhh)

9:00 am-1:00 pm Work (For the love, try to consume something healthy during this stretch of time)

1:00 pm-8:00 pm Write! Read! Run errands! Visit a friend! Make a friend! Knit an afghan! Learn about micro lending! Eat a well balanced meal!

8:00 pm Track down curly haired boy and engage in one or more of the following activities:

*Watch a movie
*Listen to records
*Gossip (of the non-malicious variety)
*Eat
*Kiss (of the non-french variety)
*Dance (I have to go solo on this one since curly haired boy refuses)
*Wrestle (This is what happens in my wrath when curly haired boy refuses to dance with me)

11:30 pm Bedtime. Good-bye World!

11:30-6:30 pm Enjoy pleasant dreams about Christian Bale

All in all I think this is a pretty great schedule. Realistic. Healthy. Fun. Christian Bale. Ask me about it sometime and with any luck I won't be wearing my pajamas when you do.

Filled To The Brim With The Holy Spirit Of Utah

2010-11-28T13:22:00.001-08:00

Oh my, it's been awhile hasn't it? Please forgive me for neglecting my little piece of internet. It seems I've been reveling so much in the simple pleasures of Provo (specifically the one involving a certain curly haired boy*) that I haven't dedicated much time to my writing. And...well...I'm still getting settled, still finding a beat and rhythm to my days. I think once I have full time work I will be far less inclined to spend 3 hours a day dancing to Michael Jackson in front of my mirror and will instead spend my evenings being an enthusiastic and stalwart blogger.

*Curly haired boy admonishing me to stop dancing and start blogging.

My brother Matthew came out to Provo this last week to celebrate Thanksgiving with me. He's studying film making in Colorado, and is the most unpretentious hipster you'll ever meet.

This is what an unpretentious hipster looks like.

To my delight, Matt made the generous decision to spend the holidays with his nice but unarguably dorkier older sister. He made three apt observations about Utah:

1. "I've never seen so many beautiful women in one place."

Matt's incredulity after seeing Utah's abundance of beautiful women.

2."I've never observed so much male sexual repression in my life. It's dripping off of the men here."

Matt's incredulity after observing the level of sexual repression in Utah.

3. "This place is hella' holy."

Matt filled with the Holy Spirit of Utah.

Sexual repression aside, Matt, myself, and Co. had a great week adventuring through Happy Valley and beyond.

We enthusiastically cut pineapple for our Thanksgiving fruit salad.

We felt proud of our green bean concoction.

We embraced our apron clad domesticity.

We ate ourselves into a food coma.

We reflected in front of the reflecting pool.

We paid homage to the Japanese nativity at Temple Square.

All in all, we had some seriously happy times kickin' it in P-town together (The other P-town).

Come back soon, Matt!

P.S. Can't get enough? More Thanksgiving week pictures here: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=575783&id=513470421&l=a196013445

The Simple Pleasures of Provo

2010-11-01T15:06:00.000-07:00

If I'm going to be completely honest, I wasn't thrilled with the idea of moving to Provo. Some of my less savory memories from earlier BYU/Provo days include being called the anti-Christ for voting Democrat and being consistently lectured on the evils of french kissing. If I can't french kiss and vote Democrat, what's the point of living?

I have only been in the motherland for one week, and I am so very happy here. Yes, I said it: I am happy in happy valley. I have some theories as to why this is the case. First of all, it's a completely different experience living here as an adult non-student. I have a car, thus I am mobile. Provo now exists beyond the edges of BYU campus which means I can drive to Super Target as many times a day as my consumer heart desires. I also have some perspective under my belt and am not so disaffected by those who may think I'm the anti-Christ. Since I've graduated, I've consistently lived in places where I was outside of the cultural mainstream--like being a waygookin (foreigner) in Seoul, Korea or a non-Bush supporter in Houston, Texas. As a young student I was deeply insecure about those differences. Now I am embrace it. Yes! It's ok to be the weirdo! It's fun!

I was sitting in Cafe Rio a couple of days ago sipping my Diet Dr. Pepper on tap (that was for you, Susan) and began making a list of the simple pleasures of Provo--the things that are contributing to my great sense of well being here. So far my list includes the following:

*I can sit in Cafe Rio sipping my Diet Dr. Pepper on tap (see above).

*I live with one of my all time favorite people. She sparkles with creativity, wit, and beauty. I was just telling someone the other day that everything she touches bursts into greatness. I don't know how that happens, but it does. Also, she does funny dances for me in the living room.

*I get to hang out with another one of my favorite people. Hint: He has curly hair and impeccable taste in music and always beats me in anagrams. Sometimes I get to kiss him. But we NEVER french kiss because that is evil.

*The Orem public library is right down the street. I'm not exaggerating when I say this is one of the coolest libraries I have ever seen. First of all, they have an entire wing (three floors) dedicated to children's books. Beautiful picture books. Young adult literature. A story time area that includes a lovely puppet theatre. Never in my life have I wanted so badly to Benjamin Button myself. The library also has an entire basement full of DVD's and CD's you can rent. We're talking a lot of media that you don't normally see in a smaller library. I rented a PBS documentary about the women's suffrage movement and so far I've learned that Susan B. Anthony was a fierce son-of-a-gun and kind of looked like a zombie. I still love her, though.

*There is virtually no humidity here so I always have really great hair. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about.

*KRCL. This is now my favorite radio station of all time ever. Top tip: You can stream it live if you go to their website. Try it. You will not be disappointed.

*I live by the train tracks, and when I hear the train whistle at night I feel comforted. It reminds me of being 5 years old again and sleeping over at my grandma's house, lying in bed listening to the train calls.

*The mountains! Oh, those mountains! I said it before but it's worth repeating: Provo has one of the most stunning skyscapes I've ever seen.

*I love that I live so close to BYU--I can attend art exhibitions, lectures, documentaries, and the international cinema to my heart's content!

That's my list for now. Although, I anticipate I'll be adding many more simple pleasures to my collection. In the words of beloved soft rocker Karen Carpenter, Provo "we've only just begun."

I Am Home

2010-10-27T13:53:00.000-07:00

I love this woman with all of my heart. Truly...with every little particle, artery and valve. I had the privilege of interviewing her for the Mormon Women Project. Please check it out!

The Wild and Instinctual Nature

2010-10-21T03:25:00.001-07:00

"What is the wild and instinctual nature? To establish territory, to find one's pack, to be in one's body with certainty and pride regardless of the body's gifts and limitations, to speak and act in one's behalf, to be aware, alert, to draw on the innate feminine powers of intuition and sensing, to come into one's cycles, to find what one belongs to."

--Clarissa Pinkola Estes

My goal for this new move to a not-so-far-off land: Discover this wild and instinctual nature for myself.

Motherland

2010-10-09T06:03:00.000-07:00

And she's off! You didn't really think that this restless spirit of mine could kick around anywhere for more than a few months did you? Predictably, I am making yet another leap to a far off local. Would you like to venture a guess?

Japan? Switzerland? Abu Dhabi?

No, no, and no!

I am moving to...

wait for it...

Provo, Utah!

That's right, I'm returning the motherland--home of my birth, the ever fabulous Brigham Young University (go cougs!) and legions of Glenn Beck supporters (I think my relentlessly liberal heart just died a little inside). Oh, and Provo boasts the most stunning sky scape I've ever seen.

Why Provo? Well, unlike Portland, a city saturated with over educated, underemployed 30 somethings like myself, Utah is in need of us artsy types. With a growing contemporary art scene, they're excited to have a museum educator entering the community, and I'm happy to comply.

Provo also houses my dear friend KaRyn who is going to grad school at the Y--she who shared her heart and many an Outback Steakhouse booth with me in Korea. I'll be living with that wonderful woman; I know they say never room with your closest friends, but I'm prepared to clock that advice in the nose. I envision lots of fabulous parties and tireless over analysis of our romantic lives.

Which brings me to perhaps the biggest reason I'm moving to Provo (what are blogs for but to act as a forum for shameless self exposure?). I'm going to see about a boy. He has existed in the ether for far too long and needs to exist in my real time. He has curly hair, impeccable taste in music and will annihilate you in anagrams. For this reason alone, moving to Provo is a far braver step for me than any jaunt off to England, Korea or Mexico. Let's give three cheers for doing the courageous things in life.

Google Fate

2010-09-21T12:31:00.001-07:00

This afternoon I typed into google images: What is the fate of Krisanne Hastings?

One of the first images Google spit out was of someone dressed up in a bear costume, break dancing in the middle of city traffic.

"Just what I thought," I sighed.

The Fellowship Of The Broken

2010-09-13T13:36:00.000-07:00

When people near me are suffering, I often wonder what I should do. I think, "I'm not doing enough! What do they need? What do I do to help ease their suffering? I don't know how to help them!" But this quote reminds me that sometimes just sitting silently, touching a hand, and being a neutral witness of someone's pain is the kindest and most authentic way to cradle those in need.

"Let us not underestimate how hard it is to be compassionate. Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to the place where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken. But this is not our spontaneous response to suffering. What we desire most is to do away with suffering by fleeing from it or finding a quick cure for it. As busy, active, relevant ministers, we want to earn our bread by making a real contribution. This means first and foremost doing something to show that our presence makes a difference. And so we ignore our greatest gift, which is our ability to enter into solidarity with those who suffer. Those who can sit in silence with their fellowman, not knowing what to say but knowing that they should be there, can bring new life to a dying heart. Those who are not afraid to hold a hand in gratitude, to shed tears in grief and to let a sigh of distress arise straight from the heart can break through paralyzing boundaries and witness the birth of a new fellowship, the fellowship of the broken."

--Henri Nouwen

*Thank you for this, Jon

Agnes

2010-09-05T21:45:00.001-07:00

My darling friend Kate gave me charge of her darling kitten Agnes this week. Agnes prefers the sleek design and user friendly features of Macs.

Have I become one of those people that posts pictures of cutesy animals on their blog? I make fun of those people. I've become one of those people! Oh the unforgiving sting of irony.

Expansion

2010-08-30T14:02:00.000-07:00

The time for expansion has arrived! I'm starting two new blog projects in addition to Bottari. The first project is called The Alderwood Triptych. It will be a blog dedicated to seeking out the spiritual histories of my paternal, maternal, and step grandmothers who are Catholic, Mormon, and Jewish respectively. Each month I will explore a theme (ritual, family, prayer, etc.) in relation to each grandmother's spiritual culture and experiences. Beginning this Sunday, I will dedicate one post to each grandmother throughout the month. It will be a melding of social history and personal experience.

The other project I'm starting is titled A Paper Moth. As a writer and an art historian, it goes without saying that I love art, and I love words. Most of the art related writing I've done is in school. Unfortunately, art historical writing can feel detached and mind-numbingly academic for many readers (I'm a nerd, and I love academia but I challenge anyone to get through my Master's dissertation without falling asleep). Here is where I tuck academia away and write the poetry of art. I want to transpose into words the themes and visions that a particular work of art evokes. On A Paper Moth, I will post a work of art that strikes me and write a short paragraph based solely on my emotional response to it. There is no analytical brain work to my writing on this blog, just heart.

You can access both blogs by following the links beneath Other Places I Write on the sidebar.

The goal of this expansion is to keep me writing, staying present, breathing in my life and exhaling something creative and meaningful. Bottari will remain a record of my comings and goings whereas The Alderwood Triptych and A Paper Moth will be more artistic, interactive projects.

Oh, and if the great spirit of blogging camaraderie moves you, follow its heed and comment. Please comment on any of my blogs! I love your feedback always, always.

Pour Out Your Souls In Your Wilderness

2010-08-29T17:22:00.000-07:00

For those of you not familiar with Mormonism, every Sunday two or three people from the congregation are asked to write and deliver a talk on a particular gospel topic (charity, faith, sacrifice, etc.). The gods conspired, and I was asked to give one of the talks in church today. I use some references from the Book of Mormon that you may not understand if you're not LDS, but that may be just reason enough to go read it. ;)

Pour Out Your Souls In Your Wilderness

Today, I am speaking on 2 Timothy 1: 7. “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” On a cursory level we could say this scripture is quite easy to interpret. Fear is bad. Love, spiritual power, and a sound mind are good. And I suppose this is true to some degree. But I think there is something far more interesting going on here in terms of the interplay between fear and love. Fear is a strange creature. It can motivate us to do all sorts of unhealthy things such as lie, hide, stagnate, lash out, attack when we need to retreat and retreat when we need to attack. When fear lives at the core of who we are, every movement and breath we make lacks integrity and as all of us know, life without spiritual harmony is remarkably painful. With that said, the presence of fear in our lives IS meaningful as it plays the important role of harbinger; it relentlessly invites us to get to the heart of what scares us. It is in this investigation of our fears that we will come to know love, power, and a sound mind. In other words, it is in this investigation that we will come to know God. In Philippians 2:12 Paul says, “work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.” Perhaps this kind of soul searching is precisely what Paul is suggesting--it is only through working with and through our fear and trembling that we can be saved.

Throughout the scriptures we are asked to face our fears to attain our salvation. Often the scriptures use the image of the wilderness to symbolize our fears--it is the dark unknown, the home of wild beasts and angry spirits, it entertains the cold and the fury of nature. The characters in our scriptures are asked, sometimes compelled, to enter this wilderness to search for the promise land which is described as a place of rest, familiarity and prosperity. This is a beautiful metaphor for the experience of meeting God and attaining salvation--peaceful, familiar, overflowing. In the scriptures, our character begins a literal journey into the heart of the wilderness to find her promise land. Metaphorically, she begins her journey into the heart of her fears to discover God and salvation. For her journey to be meaningful, she must be willing to pour out her soul in the wilderness. In Alma 34:26 we read “ye must pour out your souls in your closets, and your secret places, and in your wilderness”. A wonderful example of this theme is in the story of Sariah from the Book of Mormon who we also know as Lehi’s wife and Nephi’s mother.

We love to tell the story of Nephi as Nephi experienced it probably because the account is in his words--we recount his courage and struggles and talk about the ways in which he made brave and difficult decisions. I love Nephi. I love him for his good heart and his honest intent. But I’ve always wondered about Sariah. We don’t know much about her but I would like to offer a conjecture. She was a wealthy woman and likely well respected in her community. She worked hard to nurture and nourish her family. She probably had a close group of female friends that she could turn to for support, especially when she grew tired of living in a culture that wasn’t particularly deferential to women or when she simply felt exasperated living in a house full of dreaming, precocious, vibrant, and energetic men. And then one day, she is asked by her husband to give it all up--to leave her wealth, her community, and her supportive circle of female friends to live in the wilderness in search of a dream. What a proposition. What a very difficult thing to ask of someone. And yet, she went.

Unfortunately, I think Sariah gets a bad rap within our Mormon culture because of those few verses that reveal her fear. In 1 Nephi 5:2 Nephi says of Sariah, “For she had supposed that we had perished in the wilderness; and she also complained against my father, telling him that he was a visionary man; saying: Behold thou hast led us forth from the lands of our inheritance, and my sons are no more, and we perish in the wilderness.” Sariah murmurs. She cries. She complains. God bless her, she’s human. But this is the beauty of Sariah: she didn’t let that fear destroy her. She didn’t dance with the fear and drink herself into a numb oblivion. She traveled into the wilderness and lived there. She watched her sons disappear into the trees for a seemingly endless amount of time, not knowing if she had lost them to death. She suffered the realities of starvation and betrayal. Yet, amidst all of this, she stayed alert, she felt deeply, she wept and she rejoiced. She poured out her soul in the wilderness. It was in doing these things that she met love, power, and a sound mind. It was in doing these things that she met God.

To bring this down to a more personal level, I would like to share my own experience of walking into the wilderness. It is a vulnerable topic, and I am grateful that I have your support while I share this. A couple of years ago I fell in love. I was filled with so much hope about this man and so much anticipation about where our relationship could go. I prayed to God that everything would work out just as I had orchestrated it in my head. And yet beneath all of this dreaming and planning and orchestrating I felt the stab of a very sharp and insistent thought that it wouldn’t work out. I felt worried and wounded by the prospect that I would have to face my biggest fear: to be unloved. When this fear became more apparent I decided to seek God in the wilderness. I asked to be free from bitterness or defeat or resentment should I discover that this man didn’t love me the same way I loved him. I wanted to see the divinity of this potentially excruciating event in my life. I said to God, “I have taken the brave step and loved without knowing if I would be loved in return. I walked into the wilderness. If I am not loved in return, please consecrate my pain.” As it turns out, this man didn’t love me. And as it turns out, I was not destroyed by this information. Like Sariah, I stayed alert, I felt deeply, I wept, and I rejoiced. I poured out my soul in the wilderness. Never in my life had I felt such spaciousness or such an assurance that things unfolded as they were meant to. The role this man played in this experience became very clear to me: he was my teacher. He was placed in my life to help me face this fear in a gentle and merciful way. Through all of it I knew I had experienced some measure of salvation.

What happened to me in that wilderness? What happened to Sariah? What happens to any of us when we confront the fears and enter the dark places? We meet God. There, in the center of our terror, is a clearing of trees where Christ waits to continue the process of salvation. We give him our selves and he sands off the calcified layers of pride, anger, resentment, jealousy, misunderstanding, and self-loathing from our bodies. We meet him in the wilderness hundreds, maybe thousands, maybe millions of times until one day there is nothing left to remove. And on that day we stand there bare, in our truest form, radiating the light of our own divinity. What is salvation but the process through which Christ reveals us? What is salvation but the undeniable knowledge that we are the very embodiment of God?

I testify that when we face our fears and pour out our souls in the wilderness we will meet love, power, and a sound mind. We will know the truth of 1 John 4:16 when it states that “God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him”.

Of these things I testify in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Trunk Love

2010-08-26T23:28:00.000-07:00

When Genocide Wins The Popular Vote

2010-08-25T22:07:00.000-07:00

As I was driving home this afternoon, a reporter came onto NPR to talk about the anti-homosexuality bill that's currently being considered in Uganda.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Life in jail for being caught in a homosexual encounter? The death penalty for "serial offenders"? Three years in jail if you fail to report that your best friend or son is homosexual? The most offensive part of it all: When the bill was proposed it was hugely popular among Ugandans. It was POPULAR.

How is it that we're living in a world in which genocide wins the popular vote? I want to believe that people are good. Desperately, I do. But how do I reconcile such broken and poisonous information with those kinds of hopes?

I am acutely aware that atrocities happen the world over. I'm not so naive as to be surprised by disgraceful behavior. And yet, I am surprised. So surprised that my heart burst open into a million pieces all over the floor of my car.

God help us.

Foxy Brown And Her Radiant Heart

2010-08-05T22:13:00.000-07:00

(l-r) Me, Mom, Great-Grandma, Grandma, Autumn colored afghan

My family and I drove to Rupert, Idaho this week to visit my great-grandma. One afternoon during our visit, we went to the Minidoka County Museum and dug through their archives. In our digging, we unearthed one of my grandma's old high school yearbooks. What a find! There were several pictures of grandma and boy was she a knock out! I'm going to start calling her Foxy Brown.

Is it any wonder she was such a beauty? Look at her mother (hereafter known as Foxy Brown Two).

Grandma Two in her 30's

Oh, these grandmas of mine are beautiful. No doubt about it. But what I love so much is how dismissive they've always been of their beauty, how invested they've been in cradling the vulnerable, gesturing compassion, and wearing tenderness on their sleeve. Those faces, as gorgeous as they are, don't dare compete with those radiant hearts.

Every Body Has A Story To Tell

2010-07-31T11:48:00.000-07:00

I like this idea that emotion and memory are held in our bodies--that there exists this mysterious connection between the corporeal and the spiritual. Ambitious about blog writing today, I decided to compose some "poems". I say "poems" because I've never written poetry before, so here we go!

I. Everybody Has A Story to Tell
Every
body
has a story to tell.
I went to see an astrologist in Mexico.
She told me
my story is kept by the stars.
I say
my story is kept by my cells.
I imagine my cells cradling memories
Little envelopes of information.
(tucked inside the nucleus)
And so my body is a grand corporeal database.
Or a nursery
fleshy and blue.
I turn my arms over to watch the freeways and turnpikes that web through my wrists
a causeway for these memory cells to carry their knowing from shoulder
to elbow
to finger.

II. Reincarnation
My friend Barbara told me
sometimes
a person will
cry
when she massages their back.
These must be the dying cells
(the ones who are weary from carrying the weight of pained memory)
making their great escape from the body.
Wrapped and serene.
Reincarnated
in a
weepy
L
i
q
u
i
d
shell.

III. Blue Electric Tongue Kiss
The cells in my lips flirt and twirl
more than other cells in my body.
They are the keepers of mouth memories
the tart spark of key lime pie
the neon confession
the flick and sizzle of
the blue electric tongue kiss.

The cells in my shoulder blades are glacial
breathing out their memories of
yawn
embrace
and early morning stretch.
Their slow morph stitches out a memory
You put your hand on my shoulder blade
guiding two bodies through the thick
that quiet way
we both
weaved through the light and flash.

If you pressed your ear
to my bottom lip
to my shoulder blade
would you hear my cells breath out their memory of you?

Sugar Foot

2010-07-31T08:46:00.000-07:00

"Grandma Oak"

My mom and I spent four perfect (really, they couldn't have been more perfect) days with my grandma in Salem. Our days unfolded as follows:

7:30 am Wake up and exercise. Grandma goes to the gym for her lap swim. I go for a run in the park where that giant oak tree (lovingly christined "Grandma Oak") stands in all of her splendorous oakiness.

8:00 am Return from run and crunch on grandma's high fiber cereal for breakfast. Toot unceasingly for the rest of the day.

9:00 am Shower. Wash hair with the Suave Seabreeze shampoo grandma keeps in her bathroom for such occasions. Set hair in the hot rollers while waiting for that darling Zac Efron to make his appearance on the TODAY show.

10:00 am Depending on the day, grandma, mom and I either visit a museum, go to a used bookstore or go shopping in old town Salem which still sports a little bit of that throwback mid-century charm. Driving to our destination, grandma will inevitably encounter some pothole, pedestrian or fellow driver who will frustrate her to the point of inciting a "Sugar foot!" or "Oh, critter!" I have to admit that grandma's choice of expletives is decidedly more endearing than mine. I should consider switching over.

11:30 am Out to lunch (because this is a special week and a plain sandwich at home just won't do.). We all order salads. Every day we order salads as part of our generational hobby of watching our weight.

1:00-3:00 pm R & R (Rest and Reading) time. This is my favorite part of the day probably because it reminds me most of kindergarten. This is the part of the day where we return to grandma's house after a very vigorous afternoon of shopping and lunching. We can take naps or sit together in the family room and read, but whatever we do it has to be respectful to quiet time. I read my Latin American art books, my mom reads The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and I can't remember what grandma is reading. She reads everything.

4:00 pm Walk. We walk through the neighborhood and through the park. We talk about my mom and her siblings when they were young. Mom and grandma laugh about the time my mom crashed the car at the drive through diner the day after she got her license and the time my otherwise very well mannered uncle got caught heckling old ladies on the street.

5:00 pm Dinner snacking. We're so tired from the day's relentless activity that none of us really feel like preparing dinner. So we just snack on pretzels and popcorn and tuna salad. As far as I'm concerned, dinner snacking is where it's at.

6:00 pm-10:00 pm Crime shows. There are about 79 crime shows in syndication right now. Grandma watches about 77 of these. CSI; True Crime Stories; Bones; Pink Furry Handcuffs. Maybe not that last one. The crime show portion of the evening is often punctuated by Facebooking time wherein grandma spies on all of her grandchildren via their FB pages.

10:00 pm Bedtime. I sleep on the pull-out bed in the office where the wooden Don Quixote figurine sits on the bookshelf and the black and white photo of my young, enlisted grandpa is tacked to the wall. I find it all very comforting.

You see, such loveliness really belongs in the domain of the retired. I've come up with a plan to be retired now and work when I'm older, committed to disproving the adage that youth is wasted on the young. I will not waste my youth on work when there are walks to be taken, naps to be enjoyed, books to be read, and endless crime shows to be watched. I can't help it: retirement looks GREAT on me.

To Be Courted By A City

2010-07-05T09:01:00.000-07:00

When I first got to Guanajuato, I said to my friends, "I want to fall in love in this city!" Lucky me, I have.

I have fallen in love with the houses, stacked and layered up the hillside.

I have fallen in love with my mini tuba player bathing in the fountain.

I have fallen in love with the Virgin Mary and her gentle omnipresence.

I have fallen in love with the melancholy of Salida en Naranja by Ulises Ascencio.

I have fallen in love with the Victorian door knockers that line the street near Diego Rivera's home.

Most of all, I have fallen in love with every balcony that offers me a space to inhale and smile at my good fortune in having found love just where I was hoping to find it.

Me Encanta Tu Cara! (Part Two)

2010-06-30T18:23:00.000-07:00

Indulge me. You'll enjoy it.

During my art classes, I hand my camera over to the kids and they capture the things that capture them. The following pictures were all taken by my students. Yes! See? You're already enjoying it.

When I Sat Outside On That Stormy Day

2010-06-24T19:36:00.000-07:00

That stormy day in Cajones

I think the wind is like the Spirit: animating and unveiling everything she touches. She is the breath and the life and the revelation. She even gets the trees to tell their secrets. Those trees who are otherwise stoic and still begin to twirl and chatter, flashing and snapping their crepe paper leaves when the wind makes herself known.

"Trees," the wind says. "Show me the flicker and life you fold and hush when I'm not around. Dance with me", she whispers to their limbs.

And the marvelous thing is, they always do.

Me Encanta Tu Cara! (I Love Your Face!)

2010-06-22T18:19:00.000-07:00

While here in Guanajuato I get to pose as an art teacher once again. But instead of staring at gorgeous Korean faces all day, I get to stare at gorgeous Mexican ones. And every day I want to shout, "Me encanta tu cara!!"

Can you blame me, though?

When Aztec Dancers Drum Beneath Your Window

2010-06-17T04:54:00.000-07:00

Last weekend the city celebrated San Antonio/Saint Anthony (whose history and importance is too hazy for me to expound upon with any legitimacy in this post). In addition to selling sweet corn with mayonnaise and crispy enchiladas in the plaza below, the people in Guanajuato danced--they twirled, they teased, they weaved and shimmied. Most impressive of all were the Aztec dancers who set up camp right beneath my window. They were a little bit punk rock (is it possible they surpassed Portland barristas for sheer number of piercings and tats?) and a little bit old school indigenous.

And did I mention the feathers? Oh the feathers.

The Land Of The Frogs

2010-06-09T13:49:00.001-07:00

Guanajuato is known as the land of the frogs. I'm going to pretend it's because the town, like a frog, has an irrepressible urgency to sing her song. Music lives in every stone and tree trunk and discarded cigarette of this city.

I went to the bar on the corner last weekend and listened to the best live jazz music I've ever heard. How do I even begin to write about this music and its addictive, schizophrenic energy? I feel it in my ears, in my feet, pulsing through my legs. It is complex and flirtatious and speaks to some very elemental part of me.

I went to a cello concert held in an old stone hacienda last Sunday. When the cellist played, I was still and watching, enchanted by the arch of his fingers and the way his elbows angled against the instrument. The negative space he created with his body expanded and collapsed with each note--a crescendo and decrescendo. The movement of his limbs was yet another shade of the songs he played.

I walked down a dirt road a few miles outside of the city yesterday. An old man--his face brown from the sun and shining with generosity--sang us his song as we walked. His voice was marked with memory and intent and my feet were covered in dust and light; I was filled from belly to throat by his traveling melody.

I sing the praises of this brilliant, musical, frog laden city.

Los Colores De Mexico

2010-06-05T15:29:00.000-07:00

Azul

Verde, Blanco, Rojo, Amarillo

Naranja, Rojo

Azul, Amarillo, Verde

Rojo, Verde, Azul, Amarillo

Amarillo, Azul, Negro

Que colores puede ver?

Sometimes When I'm In Mexico City...

2010-05-31T19:47:00.000-07:00

I discover a muralist by the name of David Alfaro Siqueiros, and I fall in love a little bit.

I have yet another encounter with my passionate communisto, Diego Rivera.

I take a picture of my shadow because I want some part of me to be imprinted on this country's ground.

I complain about the heat.

But then remember it could be much worse.

And also remember how this city is layered with history...literally.

And that makes me very happy.

Mexication

2010-05-30T17:11:00.000-07:00

My friend Geoffrey coined this term, and I've grown so fond of it that everything done in Mexico now sports the very versatile 'mexi' prefix. Adding 'Mexi' to words has a way of making the mundane ridiculously cool. Plain Jane outfits worn in Mexico become smokin' hot Mexifits! Four word texts sent from Mexico are read as nuanced and profound Mexitexts! Even Pepsi--which I quite enjoy anyway--is renamed Mexipeps and delivers a solid punch of caffeinated ecstasy.

I not only love 'Mexi'. I love Mexico.

Yesterday, we went to the National Palace in Mexico City and saw some stunning murals by Diego Rivera. I can see why Frida thought he was Mexisexy. Who doesn't love a socially conscience, impassioned artist?

Afterwards, we saw some Aztec ruins that may have been even more stunning than Diego's paintings. Sorry, Diego.

We climbed to the top of the sun pyramid! Can you find me? (Trick question! I'm the one taking the picture.)

This afternoon we floated on the water in brightly festooned canal boats.

I learned a very important phrase: Mi puede dar una coca cola?

The boats even had mariachis.

Mariachis, coca cola, and boats? Sigh.

So far this trip is Mexitastic.