tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77971037915057238992024-02-19T01:43:28.742-08:00my heart is an appleashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-22459941218617353732013-02-13T05:37:00.000-08:002013-02-13T05:59:47.342-08:00An Insightful Train RideA few days ago I was riding the subway to meet Derek. It was right before the 5 o'clock rush so there were relatively few people on the train. An African American man who had been sitting across from me got up to exit the subway, but before he left he screamed as loud as he could, "I fu*#'n hate white people!" The incredibly loud declaration was filled with so much emotion, passion and force I took what he said at face value. As the doors closed I felt deep in my heart that he indeed did hate white people, maybe he even hated me.<br />
<br />
I looked around at the other passengers. The vast majority, surprisingly, were white guys like me. With the exception of a few Latinos and two or three African Americans, we were all of Anglo-decent. No one else seemed phased by the hateful explosion (granted this is NYC and the masses don't get phased easily) but no one seemed the least bit upset by the event. Everyone went right back to their ipad, book, music or game after the shock of the man's explosive voice faded away.<br />
<br />
I, on the other hand, felt my face grow red hot. I was surprised by my involuntary response, and because my initial shock was quickly morphing into embarrassment that border-lined on shame. I felt stripped of identity and arbitrarily reduced to nothing more than a meaningless social construct known as "skin color". <br />
<br />
I looked at the African American man sitting across from me squarely in the face and wondered, "Do you hate me too because of the color of my skin? What about my son? Is someone so beautiful and innocent a symbol of disgust to you too?" I quickly looked away and felt my face grow red hot again.<br />
<br />
It's not just the hate that was so upsetting (although, as Derek knows, I have a very LOW tolerance for any kind of violence -- including hate. So yes, that's upsetting but that's not what shamed me). It was hating me -- or someone classified as being "like me" -- based on something I cannot control, something that is part of me but does no define me, my skin.<br />
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I thought about all the people who had been hated for the same stupid reason, and maybe I'm going too far here, but I honestly felt the tinniest bit of understanding for some of the complexities and degrading properties of prejudice. I wasn't upset, rather I felt as though my eyes had been opened ever so slightly to a side of an issue that had been so unfamiliar to me before and for that I am grateful. I hope that particular encounter makes me a more loving, open and accepting member of society.<br />
<br />
After I told Derek about the incident, he told me he wonders what someone has experienced in life to feel such a lack of acceptance for other members of the human race -- for people who are just like him. Indeed. I just hope for myself or anyone in my family, we will never be the means of propagating such intolerance and hate for the future generations.<br />
<br />ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-20525442902336174152013-02-07T12:19:00.000-08:002013-02-28T13:43:57.451-08:00Toilets, NYC and The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have a very abnormal and very real hate for the constant and inconvenient bodily urge known as “peeing”. Yes, I
agree. It’s weird. I’ve often wondered how it’s possible that after 27 years I
haven’t acquired a certain level of acceptance or even appreciation for the
necessary and, in some cases, enjoyable impulse. However, the truth is I find
the ritual one great annoyance. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I remember as a kid playing in the forest that surrounded my
house (literally. Our house was surrounded by a dense central-Florida brush,
and it was the perfect place for an adventurous imagination like mine) and I
was too busy building a tree-fort, fighting perilous intruders or scouting my
magical kingdom to be bothered by such trivial things as a “potty break”. After
years of watching my brother’s fine examples, I would often find a little girl
tree – do the deed – and get right back to my very vital playtime. That was
until my dad caught me using my little girl tree. In no uncertain terms he
screamed everything any concerned father would say if they found their daughter’s
fleshy bum exposed to the bright, clear afternoon sky. He also managed to
remind me with a fatherly growl that we drank well water – water that was drawn
straight from the very ground I was peeing in.
After that, I somehow managed to find time for the toilet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In high school I gained the reputation as the girl who could
hold her pee all day. I learned if you simply ignore the impulse long enough it
eventually goes away…only to be replaced by the more brutally inconvenient
bladder infection. Needless to say, after a few of those beauties I was quickly
cured of my propensity for high school toilet aversion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yet, I can honestly say that in the last 10 years or so I've grown accustomed to and even made time for the necessary lavatory breaks. That
was until I became pregnant. The sheer number of visits alone would drive any
normal person absolutely crazy, much less someone like me. Personally I thought
I was handling the change quite well until my bladder somehow shrunk to the
size of a kumquat. I would pee before leaving the house only to find the urge
coming back 5 minutes later. <i>WHAT? WHY?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This became especially complicated by the simple fact that I
live in NYC – the city with NO public restrooms. If I walked into a store I
could only hope the manager was a woman who understood the pains of
childbearing, and who might be willing to show mercy by way of a toilet.
Otherwise (and sadly, this was more often the case) I would have to hold it in
hopes of finding a McDonald's or Starbucks en route to my destination. And I
won’t even begin to describe the anatomy of NYC public restrooms. Let’s just
say I have arrived at many a home, business or appointment bouncing in desperate hope and sheer anticipation of a clean toilet seat. I even became so desperate as to seek out
research. There had to be a way to ensure I was fully utilizing my precious
bathroom time. The experts suggest if you bend forward, lift a leg, close an
eye and do acrobatics while on the toilet you’re more likely to <i>completely</i> empty your bladder. I've tried. It’s a lie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Which finally brings me to the climax of my story and the
point of this blog post: For Thanksgiving my husband and I decided to join
our friends at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in Manhattan. We were loaded
with cinnamon rolls, hot cocoa, blankets, chairs and the customary parade
surviving tactics. We had found the right spot, we had saved the right amount
of space for our posse and now all we needed to do was wait for the glorious
festivities to begin. Fully aware of the city I’m in and the pathetic size of
my bladder, I cautiously drank 1 cup filled ¾ of the way with hot cocoa and a few
desperate sips of water. <i>That’s it</i>. <span style="line-height: 115%;">The
irony of pregnancy is that you’re thirsty all the time and therefore you have to
pee all the time. </span> Yet, I was willing to sacrifice my thirst on the
altar of The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and to the city with no public
restrooms. Then it hit me…the clear urge to find a toilet. I looked at my
watch. The parade would begin in a half-hour. I rationalized that I would be
too excited by the miraculous sights and sounds of the parade to be distracted
by my bladder. I could wait. I looked at my watch. It was so close…I could
definitely wait. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I looked at my watch again. <i>Oh no.</i> It had only been 30 seconds! I thought I had been holding on
for a solid 5 minutes. That’s when I knew I had to do something. I couldn't last a half-hour. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A friend nearby suggested I do the mother-tested towel tent
trick. If you ever went to a swimming pool or beach as a child I guarantee you
either did this or saw this being done. The towel tent trick involves 2 very
trustworthy individuals who hold-up a towel (or in my bigger bum adult
situation, a blanket) around another person while they change from their bathing suit to their street clothes. Unfortunately, I was not at a beach, I
was not 4 years old and I had no clothes to change into – only a cup to try and
pee in. I’ll save you the logistics of our tactics. Let’s just say it involved someone
thrusting an iphone next to my ear with emitting water sounds; singing from nearby
friends to cover up any sound me or my pee might make; and literally thousands
of people walking or standing next to me as I tried to lower my trousers in
order to pee – all while wrapped in a canopy of inconspicuous blankets held by
my husband and a friend who couldn't look me in the eye. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then I froze. My muscles wouldn't budge, nor would they
listen to my brain’s silent command to <i>work</i>!
I had extreme stage fright. I could not do it. I tired breathing deeply to
relax: nothing. I tried focusing on the iphone’s water sounds: nothing. I could
not do it! Giving up, I reasoned I simply didn't have to go bad enough. When I
did, I would be able to go without a hiccup. I looked at my watch. The parade
was about to begin in less than 15 minutes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I stood around, chatted, laughed about my exploits and waited. When I realized I refused to move because of the pain I
felt with a single step, I decided to try the blankets again. This time I told
no one, except for my trusted tent-blanket holders. Assuming the additional
privacy would help in the transaction, I lowered my pants, positioned the cup
and got ready to let her flow. Then a young family stood, literally, right next
to me. I couldn't believe my luck. I knew there was no chance of it happening
now. Dejected and defeated, I called our mission quiets. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I surveyed the situation. We were right next to central
park. The other side of the street <i>might</i>
have a public restroom somewhere but I had no idea where that might be and we
only had about 10 minutes until the start of the parade. Plus, if I crossed the
street there was no guarantee I would make it back to my group of friends. The cops
regulating the parade route where no joke, and if the parade had started before
I got back there was NO way I could cross the street again. My only real option
was central park. I could see the floats approaching, and I knew the parade was
about to begin at any moment. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I grabbed a wet-wipe, my husband and a blanket. I was on a mission
and this time I wasn't going to fail. Heading into central park we ventured off
the beaten path toward a large bridge. I broke through the metal barricades and
slid next to the wall in the center of the dome-shaped bridge. I could see people on the other side of the
bridge clear as day. My only hope was that the looming floats down the street
would distract them and no one would be turning around to view me in all my
glory. My husband stood to my left, the side of me facing central park – where
a few stragglers were still walking in hopes of seeing the parade for
themselves. Throwing a blanket around me, I lowered my pants and let it come.
And it finally did! <i>Hallelujah</i>! Yet,
my muscles had been so tight from before that the stream was agonizingly slow.
No matter how much I tried to push, it stubbornly remained as slow as maple
syrup on a cold winters morning. I asked my husband if anyone was coming.
Patiently, yet strongly, he urged me to hurry. That was, however, the one thing
I couldn’t do. I could not make it move any faster. What was worse was that it
was still coming! There was so much that it seemed to have lasted an entire
minute. I couldn't believe it! Suddenly, my husband with slightly less patience
and more urgency told me to hurry up! I couldn't see but I could hear
footsteps. Someone was definitely coming. I had barely enough time to seal the
deal, pull up my pants and take a few steps before an entire family walked
right past us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">To be completely honest, reader, <s>I’m pretty sure</s> they
walked right through my little puddle of pee. Pretty gross, right? Well, if you've read this far than you deserve to hear the moral we walked away with on that
Thanksgiving morning: don’t ever judge what a pregnant lady has to do to
survive in NYC, and the shoes you wear in NYC should never, ever be worn inside
your house. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">However, the parade was AMAZING and I would do it again in a
heartbeat. Sure, I had to get up at the crack of dawn and fight the crowds, but
I will never forget how I felt as I watched the parade or the way the city
looked afterwards: I felt at home. It was truly a family-friendly, morally clean
and uplifting event for which I was <i>THANKFUL</i>.
</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfA5V5F5rdtbokLCS2kwS0w1CfHqXaujdu64grgMKWgJnfe71g1elePIkY5K7d7tXalsL-X4auzLjw2-qOGBp-IWcEPUjNXr0jpmadf0QSL7V1v4G9LiNT67T37KrWwswW2VLmyuuYKyvS/s1600/IMG_1358.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfA5V5F5rdtbokLCS2kwS0w1CfHqXaujdu64grgMKWgJnfe71g1elePIkY5K7d7tXalsL-X4auzLjw2-qOGBp-IWcEPUjNXr0jpmadf0QSL7V1v4G9LiNT67T37KrWwswW2VLmyuuYKyvS/s320/IMG_1358.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-92021635312877247222013-01-09T12:18:00.000-08:002013-01-09T12:50:46.471-08:00A Note to Luca: Power of Names and Nicknames<span style="font-family: inherit;">Luca C. Hervey. That's your name little one. Sometimes I daydream of cute little nicknames we might call you: "Luca Bug!" or "Luca C. Bean" but maybe your nickname won't be remotely connected to Luca. None of mine are. To your Aunt Trina I'm Beebes 90% of the time and the other 10% of the time I'm Ashley (usually the given name is only used when she isn't to happy with me or in a formal setting like an introduction). To your Papa Williams I'm Muffaleupagus or Muff for short. I have no idea how he came up with that. My best guess is it's a derivative from the Sesame Street character, Snuffleupagus or "Snuffy". I do remember being an AVID Sesame Street fan as a child so the connection is possible. There is no sweeter sound than hearing him say "Hello Muff"or hearing Trina say "Hey Beebes". It's as comforting as a mouth full of macaroni and cheese, a blanket pulled up to your chin or someone you love holding your hand. I hope they never stop. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Let's not forget your
dad. Your dad's nickname from his mom is "Bucky" (not nearly as cool
as Muff or Beebes, right? Kidding. None of these are very cool, but that's not
the point. And yes, there is a point and yes, I'm getting there).
Apparently he loved to rock -- and still does -- in a rocking chair when
he was younger. So much so, that she gave him the nickname. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;">Names are incredibly
powerful and meaningful. From nicknames that make us feel safe and loved, to
Biblical stories of men and women receiving new names to reflect their new
position with God and in society. Names have the power to change people and to
incite in them a desire to be more than themselves -- to be worthy of the name
they bear. (Alma 23:16 - 17). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;">When your dad and I
were newly married we talked about possible names we might like. Unlike most
couples we had a relatively easy time coming up with something we felt would be
unique, meaningful and worthy of a child of ours. :-) I told your dad I really
liked Biblical names because they hold special meaning to Christians
everywhere and in the same breath I said and I really like Luke. Now your
father, being the red-headed Italian that he is, instantly suggested the
Italian form for Luke, Luca. I fell in love. It was unique but not weird. And
you'd always know how important your dad's mission was to him and how much he
loved the people he served. I thought it was a great first name. For the middle
name I wanted a family name. If the first name was not to be a family name then
the middle name MUST be. The C. comes from your great-grandfather Williams and
your Papa Williams. Both of them are and were Godly men who have made this
little world of ours a better place by their mere existence. I couldn't think
of better men to have influence your life. A life I have loved, protected,
fought for, waited for, hoped for and believed in -- even more than my
own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;">So that's how you
became Luca C. Hervey. We hope you love your name. We hope you find honor in
it, and will allow yourself to feel the symbolism and deep meaning that is
yours to carry. We love you. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-31263836304391809662012-03-07T14:41:00.002-08:002012-03-07T15:35:02.499-08:00MemoriesMy excuse for neglecting my blog has been, "At work I write all day. The last thing I want to do is come home, stare at a computer screen and write some more." (Side note: I'm beginning to question the virtue that you should turn your hobby into a job.)<div><br /></div><div>The truth, however, is that I do not write. I blog. </div><div><br /></div><div>I use too many corny phrases (that my boss just eats up by the way), and post too many exclamation marks that even I'm beginning to cringe. </div><div><br /></div><div>Usually I come home, numbingly exercise, talk about this and that, eat some kind of dinner and sleep. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sadly, there's not enough quit and inactivity for blissful reflection. That is until tonight. </div><div><br /></div><div>Right now I should be on mile 2 of my 3 mile run. Instead I took a bath and ate tortilla chips -- <i>alone</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was in my solitude and delinquent revelry that I began to think. It was rich, deep and comforting. At first it was superficial thoughts: what should I make for dinner? Is that another hang nail just waiting to happen? I should trim it, but instead I think I'm just going to bite it. Then my hands dropped into the water and I sat back. I closed my eyes, and broke the dam of pent up thoughts. I let them rush over me, cover me, warm me and then be acknowledge by me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I picked one up. I wondered a little and dropped it. I picked up another thought. This time it stuck. I wondered, do people think of me as often as I do of them? Am I some freak? Some anomaly that hangs onto people, memories and feelings longer than others -- or perhaps longer than I should? Is it wrong to look back and think often on the men and women who I may never see again, but who are forever in my heart? Is it inappropriate to waste time wondering what they're doing, and if -- at that very moment, even -- they're wondering about me too?</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe.</div><div><br /></div><div>But maybe not. Perhaps the people who have left a mark on me, also have a mark FROM me. And when they see an outrageously funny seinfield episode they'll think of me. Or when they drink herbal tea, they'll wonder what I'm up to. Or when they hear something about women's rights, they'll wish they could share their nugget of information with me. Better yet, when they decide to drop the tv remote and pick up a book, they'll wish I had seen the act of brilliance and that I could applaud them for it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Hopefully I am right and that I'm not alone. I think we could all use a little more of our memory to actually REMEMBER the people, places and times that are bunched together in our hearts, brains, personality and experiences. </div><div><br /></div><div>A shout out to my man, Oscar Wilde, seems appropriate, "Memory...is the diary that we all carry about with us." I am obsessed with books and addicted to reading. It's no wonder, therefore, that I love my memories too. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you, Oscar. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-79648435403935552442011-07-23T13:54:00.001-07:002013-02-13T05:53:37.211-08:00Summers were made for love.Reader,<br />
Are you still there? Do you remember me - your once faithful friend and writer? I have not forgotten you. Tonight my head and hands itch for the keyboard, my blog and you.<br />
<br />
It has been too long since I have sat down and forced my mind to mutate from private inner musings, to public utterances of sound and sentences. Forgive me for my hiatus. You see, I fell in love.<br />
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Is it cliche, dear reader, to tell you that my heart has finally and completely been captured in the most unlikely circumstances? Is it mere cheesiness to admit that in a matter of days I knew that I had met a man who had stirred my soul in a way that I had never known before? That in his eyes I saw simplicity and honesty, both keys perfectly formed to unlock my heart to once again hope, believe, trust and finally love again. </div>
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If it is all "hosh posh" to you then I say do not read on. For my head and heart are full tonight with the beauty that so many ignorantly shy away from, or foolishly take for granted: that beauty is love - the deep, lasting sort that changes a person from mediocre to the extraordinary as life encompasses more than a "me" but rather a "we".<br />
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<div>
But before I begin, let me describe the very object of my affection. I read once that the reason books are so meaningful and powerful is that they resemble real people, real events and real life more accurately than any other medium. In short, we see ourselves and those around us in literature. I agree with this principle whole heartedly, and as I began to match my friends and family with the names of so many characters dearly loved the thought popped into my head, " Derek is just like Mr. Bingly! Post needing the approval of Mr. Darcy and his sisters." You know, the Mr. Bingly who decides for himself that Jane is the only woman he wants, despite her low position in society and the scoffs of nay-sayers. Mr. Bingly, so kind, optimistic, good natured, generous, and happy finally grows up to be a man. This is my Derek. Only add a few more important virtues: charity, a testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ, integrity, gentleness, a deep spirit of service, hard-working, great communicator, spontaneous, intelligent and aware of the important things in life -- all of that and still it is a mere fleeting glance into the heart and soul of Derek. He is deeper and more beautiful than my flimsy words have power to express. </div>
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I feel already that Derek's influence has softened my edges and created a more beautiful and complete me. He is my match. Together, we form a more perfect phase of being and living. We transcend the earthly and touch the eternal as we commit, covenant, sacrifice, serve, cherish and love one another. My connection to Derek is far beyond anything I have ever shared with anyone before. He is the first person who actually SEES me. He sees and understands all of me, and he loves me for it. Despite my shortcomings, he sees vast potential in the person I am and will eventually become. In his love, I will become more than I have ever imagined.</div>
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God has offered me a gift and a miracle. </div>
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I have no more fears, only dreams. </div>
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ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-18841122212150120612011-05-08T19:55:00.000-07:002011-05-08T20:05:23.166-07:00Audaces fortuna iuvat<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve tried writing one poem and three blog posts to you. I write a line or two and scrap it, knowing you would laugh at my foolish attempts. I feel completely inadequate to address you in verse, preferring instead a long drive where words fill the space between lost glances and undiscovered feelings. Yet the beautiful person you are and hide is blooming and alive in the words on your pages. So I’m trying something new; communicating with you in your medium. I only ask for your patients as I try to navigate my feelings to the page.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">You were the perfect person to join me and Jane Eyre. I could spend days, weeks, or months in a bookstore with you as my teacher. I love that you find beauty and magic in a town that stands as the epitome of American embarrassment, and remind me all over again that I know nothing about the world I’m living in. Thank you for helping me let go and say goodbye to the JSFB along with the fully stocked fending machine muffins, costing exactly $1.20. I pull out my cell phone a million times a day wanting to send you a message just so I can get my fill of your witty humor. Inevitably, however, I talk myself out of the idea until the next impulse comes, and I know before my hands reaches inside my pocket I’m giving in this time. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p>ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-30704712353097831682011-05-02T22:34:00.000-07:002011-05-02T22:43:33.113-07:005.2.11"I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy." -Martin Luther King, Jr. <div><br /></div><div>We look just like the terrorists: rejoicing in death and murder. I don't mean to say I'm not glad he's dead. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, I had hoped we were better than this...<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0hrPNw1NEYs5ooUQMMZdJC7uZ2lhWeyROxRuA2s5OpZe-q6ZoBlE3ijGaNg8rxNfYdhWoZ93Igp2P4ryW-MO5zlK7JdNwQpc-EDu53ueThKed4vsdahUinuP9UmXrfnDdiq_aSLk_Su3r/s320/bin+laden+2.jpg" style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602360620034508498" /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div></div>ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-68061962343182150352011-05-02T21:55:00.001-07:002011-05-02T22:28:34.359-07:00Day 1: South Carolina, Honda, Wyoming, and AmericaI graduated from the university. While many of my fellow graduates posted facebook messages of excitement upon leaving school, I did not join them. I mourn my lost desk space in the classroom's of my professors. <div><br /></div><div>I am, therefore, determined to turn my time in South Carolina into a literary experience. Photographs, stories, writing exercises, nature, and working out (not very literary, but none the less important) will fill my time. At least, these are my goals. </div><div><br /></div><div>I miss school. Or the idea of school. I miss the potential for knowledge and self-expansion more than I can say. Thus, my literary pursuit is accompanied by my extreme desire and sincere hope that my education will not subside now that I am lacking a classroom. And formal teachers. Although, I know I will soon encounter new teachers: nature, experience, along with the triumphs and follies of man will be my new mentors. I welcome them with open arms and a warm heart. </div><div><br /></div><div>Even now- as I sit in the back of a tightly packed Honda Civic with a computer that intermittently falls on my leg which I prop up with a quick kick-I look out my window and into the dead space of Wyoming and feel the fluttering of butterflies deep in my belly. I cannot help but think back on the person I was last time I drove across the country like this: I think I was 7 or 8 and I remember the cans of apple juice lovingly purchased by my mother for the long trip ahead. As though the juice was the liquid of calm and patience that helped us along our journey. I remember the ever present ejaculations of "are we there yet?" or "stop touching me" and "did you just fart?" between me, my brothers, and a male cousin. I also remember the last time I left home: my mission. I was a child-naive, scared, immature, and as most children are: overly confident. I had little experience for what lay ahead. I remember being shocked by how much I missed the bubble of Provo, Ut and the unwavering support of my family. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today, however, is different from all those other times. </div><div><br /></div><div>Like the layers in the beautiful rock formations of the west, I have layers of my own: intellect, experience, and a truly tested soul. I am more and bigger than before. I may be in the same space-leaving home and cramped in a tiny spot carefully arranged for my "comfort"-but I am different, and I am excited to see how my newest layers will fare in this latest trip. I suppose that's why I love to travel; it affords one the opportunity to see the culmination of who they've become while catching a glimpse of their own potential. I am, dear reader, ready to see my own. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am also excited to see America through my new lens of belief, doubt, analysis, and education all of which I have carefully crafted for myself. </div><div><br /></div><div>In Wyoming there was a hotel called "Little America". The natural setting of Wyoming is brown, grey, and green.Yet, the hotel clashed with the terrain as it stood proudly with bright-red walls and stark-white moldings. Even the design was off; too eastern for a state so far west. I couldn't help but ask myself, what is more American? The sloping hills of brown, grey, and green or the bright-red and stark-white of the Little America? </div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps America lies in the clash between bright-red and brown. </div><div> </div>ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-14996763465158072532011-02-17T23:21:00.000-08:002011-02-22T19:42:17.684-08:00Thresholds<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:donotpromoteqf/> <w:lidthemeother>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:lidthemeasian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:lidthemecomplexscript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> 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mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes I have to look at my hands to remind myself I’m 82. I feel older, much older. It hasn’t always been like this. I’ve only felt this way since April.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I remember it was early April, because my daffodils were just beginning to bloom. I had worked so hard to get them ready in order to welcome spring properly. My mind was alive with images of the summer garden – of lawn chairs, lemonade, picnics, and ring-around the rosies with the great grandchildren. Our garden, his and mine, was a source of hard work and joy. The constant digging, picking, and watering offered physical exercise while allowing time for psychological restoration. In short, it was our fountain of youth; it kept us young and healthy. More importantly, however, it was our planned, peaceful utopia wherein we would spend our days elbow deep in tranquility and tulips. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">My hands haven’t touched the garden since April. I look at my hands and hate how clean they are. How clean they have to be. I can’t come in his room unless I’m sterilized. As though my hands are extensions of the monitors and wires that line his bedroom – our bedroom. Don’t they know <i style="">it</i> had been growing in him for months while I touched him, unsterilized, ungloved? My hands were stained with dirt and still I touched him. If my hands, our garden’s dirt, could kill <i style="">it</i> I would burn the imprint of my hand across his neck. I would reach inside and sprinkle the soil from my hands and the dirt from my nails all around his lymph nodes. I could test the PH of his blood and fertilize him until he was strong again. I would prune again and again. If only these hands, these old, wrinkled hands, could bring him nourishment like they can my garden – our garden. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Thank goodness the alarm is going off. It’s time for his meds. These hands can work and in turn, offer my mind silence and rest. To be honest, I dread going into his room. He looks so pale and thin. A mere shadow of the man I have known for 62 years. As is our routine, when I pass him the pills he’ll smile and say “down the hatch.” I’ll ask him how he’s feeling, and he’ll respond with his painfully optimistic, “much better today.” I’ll want to scream NO YOU’RE NOT. STOP LYING TO YOURSELF, TO ME. YOU’RE DYING. Instead, I’ll just smile and nod. Then I’ll hold his hand and finish reading until he gratefully falls asleep, escaping the pain. These are my days. These are his days. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Wake up Ben. It’s time for your medicine, love. ” It’s seems to be getting harder to wake him these days. I reach down and touch his cheek, “wake up sweetheart.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Huh? Wha…oh Winnie…” He clears his throat. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Here Ben. Take your medicine, sweetheart.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I lower my hand. The 2 pills gleam bright blue and green against my pale palm. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">His hand remains motionless as his eyes travel upward. They stop on the pills. His gaze then shifts to my hands.<span style=""> </span>When we met back in college, I loved how his deep brown eyes seemed to swallow the world in one gaze. They were so alive. They would look at you with a probing acuteness. As though he could size you up with one glance. He spoke little, and consequently his eyes never missed a thing. But since his illness, his eyes had faded. He would look at me and only me. His eyes stopped swallowing the room: the filtered sunlight through the window, the family photos that lined the opposite wall, his favorite and “lucky” baseball cap beside his bed – it was as though it took all the effort he had to look at one of anything. And now he was using that effort to look at my hands. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“What?” I whispered. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I miss seeing dirt under your nails.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I chuckled. “What do you mean?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“From our garden. I loved seeing you fuss over your dirty nails. Even more, though,<span style=""> </span>I loved how they stayed dirty. Winnie, I fell in love with you again and again over our 62 years together because you were never afraid of getting dirty – you chose to work alongside me.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I smiled, forcing back the tears. I was about to give him one of the many clichéd expressions about how when he gets better we’ll work together again, but he interrupted me instead.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Plant the tomatoes, Winnie. They’ll be late if you don’t get them started.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“What are you talking about, Ben? I don’t care about the tomato plants. Let’s get you better first.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Plant the tomatoes, Winnie. I know how much you love cheese and tomato sandwiches. What will you do if you don’t have any from the garden?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You mean what will WE do…”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Stop.” It was barely a whisper.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So this was it. My God…the charade of a miraculous cure had crumbled. I let my hand drop. The pills slipped through my fingers and fell to the floor. This time I let the tears come. No smiles. No masks. I let him see it all – the pain, the fear, and the crushing debilitation of powerlessness. I lowered myself to the chair and his hand reached up to touch my cheek. His hand burned hot against my wet flesh. His dry eyes were once again alive, and they swallowed me whole. He saw and understood everything.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">He just let me cry. He shed no tears himself. Instead, he let me have my moment of pain without having to share his.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Finally he spoke up, “We sure did create a beautiful garden together Winnie. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that I shared it with you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Me too, Ben.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I knew this was goodbye. I had rehearsed this moment a million times in my head. I had thought about what I would say, and what I would ask forgiveness for. Yet, words and language seemed to have failed. Nothing could express what our eyes and fingers intertwined could communicate. I watched him until he fell asleep and then peacefully died. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I let myself have a good month of mourning. You know, not wash anything – including myself – <span style=""> </span>and only eating what was brought over by concerned neighbors. <span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>Today, however, I awoke to the feeling of spring in the air. The sun was bright and inviting. The air seemed lighter somehow. It’s not spring, of course, but I guess “the feeling of spring” is simply that sense of hope and belief that after death, something more is coming. It’s different, to be sure, but still something to find joy in. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was hesitant to be out gardening again – especially without Ben. His goofy, oversized, garden hat would always bounce along the hedge rows as he worked. I was alone. No hat. No soft whistle to keep me company. For 62 years I had never gardened without Ben. I felt as though I were betraying him as I lugged the hoe across the yard and picked up my spade. Death was everywhere. My beautiful peonies bushes were bone dry. The roses too were barely salvageable. My once straight rows of vegetables were crooked and picked over with weeds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I very slowly dropped to my knees. The old familiar cracking and moaning of my protesting knees seemed to christen the affair. Even the humming birds seemed to have stopped by to act as witnesses for my communion with dirt, plant, and earth. I worked my spade, but I soon I dropped it; preferring instead the hot soil on my hands. 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mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Growing up, my family’s kitchen cupboard was a cacophony of cups, plates, and silverware – all miss-matched, nothing a perfect set. <span style=""> </span>We liked it better that way – each plate had a memory attached to it and the bowls’ barely visible print meant that it had been a favorite for cereal. Every mug was mysteriously acquired through a unique process of time – for example, everyone had a favorite cup that had been around for years, yet no one knew just how it had gotten there. All of which added to the charm of the kitchen cupboards, and our unique set of dinner wear. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>At the bottom of the piled plates, faithfully lay the red plate. It was chipped, and completely alone – a one of a kind. Sometimes special, but most of the time ignored. <span style=""> </span>It was never used unless it was somebody’s birthday. It was tradition in the William’s home to have your favorite meal cooked to celebrate your big day. More importantly, however, you were given the red plate. Only on such occasions, did the red plate mean much. But when the plate was removed from the cupboard, it was wondrous how beautiful the plate could become when placed on the table. <span style=""> </span>It would lie full of bright pride as though eager to indicate the coveted spot of the birthday boy or girl. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>As a kid, I never realized how different I was. Not different in the sense that I couldn’t tie my shoe, or I had a hard time reading, but different in my family. I never realized that my ideas, my likes, my passions were any different. Yet, over the years I came to realize that my family is as diverse as the plates we ate upon. <span style=""> </span>Sporty, woodsy, redneck, strict, hippy: all miss-matched, nothing a perfect set. Me? I feel sometimes special, but most of the time ignored. Not on purpose mind you, but like the red plate, I only look good on special occasions. So I stay in the cupboard, on the bottom of the stack, waiting to be taken out and looked upon. <span style=""> </span></p><br />Note: this isn't necessarily autobiographical. as a writer, i have taken a few liberties. but that's not really the point. instead, i want you to focus on the FEELINGS the piece elicits and then, if you wouldn't mind, tell me what you felt when you finished reading the entry. i am trying to craft essays that create very precise emotions. thank you reader!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-21.png" alt="" /></div>ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-3098608391881691242011-01-24T22:28:00.000-08:002011-01-27T16:30:40.449-08:00contradiction<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> 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<w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="33" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Book Title"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="37" name="Bibliography"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="39" qformat="true" name="TOC Heading"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:130%;" >i wrote this for a class:<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;">Mormon Feminist – 2 words that describe me, and yet feels disproportionate on my tongue. How can I, after all, support Betty Friedan and Joseph Smith? Somehow I think it’s possible. I find my soul is big enough to accommodate contradiction. On my book shelf, for example, </span><span style=";font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-size:130%;">the <i style="">Feminist Mystique</i> sits squarely next to my Book of Mormon and other standard works – each book embodying belief, faith, and truth while admittedly incongruent in tradition. Yet, it’s within the areas of grey – the overlap of opposing ideals – that I find potential for possible expansion. It’s as though my sense of self is enlarged when I discover my personality can be a mixture of contradiction. I can choose what I will believe and find a place for it in my sense of self. In other words, the more I have studied the gospel and feminism I have found completeness in opposition. The yin is not whole without the yang, so too Mormonism is not complete without feminism. The gospel of Jesus Christ is based on equality. All covenants and ordinances are entered into individually. Salvation is obtained only through an equal dependence of man and women to each other. Betty Friedan’s conclusion of <i style="">Feminist Mystique</i> calls for all women to educate themselves before moving on to marriage and family. She asserts that women must choose for themselves to be stay-at-home moms instead of society (religious society too) pressuring them into such careers. I hold these ideals to be true with all my heart. I spout similar ideology to friends and family. I will teach my daughters the same principles. In short, Betty’s words have seared my heart and become a large part of who I am. To some, this may be a contradiction to Mormonism – you tell me reader, is it?</span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">in short, this piece is meant to prove that we are all walking contradictions. what are YOUR contradictions reader? hate violence, but never back down from a fight? love nature, but never go outside? love your friends, but never talk to them? if you feel up to it, tell me about your own divergent parts of self. or at the very least, admit them to yourself - and then smile, because only in the parts are you truly whole. </span></p>ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-21859032754601454872011-01-20T15:02:00.000-08:002011-01-20T23:52:53.936-08:00post scriptp.s.<br /><br />i almost forgot about you...<br /><br />dear 2011,<br /><br />you and i have clearly gotten off on the wrong foot. let's start again shall we? in case you somehow missed the clearly written goals in my planner, let me remind you: 2 hook -ups in just as many weeks was NOT on the list. instead, "get into at least one mature and rational relationship that lasts longer than 1 week or 1 month" WAS a part of the plan. so please, if you wouldn't mind, comply with my prerecorded goals. otherwise, help me avoid all other douchebags in provo, and the surrounding areas.<br /><br />also, help me figure out what to do with my life.<br /><br />thank you.<br />-Aashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-13086115089727263272011-01-17T13:09:00.000-08:002011-01-19T19:35:38.094-08:00a letter of sortsdear customer who told me i look good for my age: i am NOT old enough for that compliment<br /><br />dear winter semester: you're my last, and therefore i refuse to succumb to you. every other semester has dominated my life. not you too.<br /><br />dear brick oven: i walk past you every monday, wednesday, and friday at noon. you make my forthcoming lunch seem so unappetizing. will you stop filling the air with the delicious aroma of pizza? thank you.<br /><br />dear room: i finally have you to myself. i love the freedom entitled in allowing you to be messy. i'm sorry for your fate, but i fear you will continue to stand as a monument to "free space" as books mingle with shoes upon the floor.<br /><br />dear friends: please remember me. remember me as i am, as i was, and as i want to become.<br /><br />dear winter: you make have taken the sun, but you have not taken my smile.<br /><br />sincerely,<br />Aashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-33376045351822498982011-01-04T21:15:00.000-08:002011-01-04T22:40:38.824-08:00New Year, Last SemesterThis is it reader. The final semester of my undergraduate degree. I started...uh, I'd rather not admit when...I started a long time ago (cough...2004).<br /><br />Maybe it's all the hype about the New Year and looking back (or for some, refusing to look back) that I feel the need to review and then impart a few truths about me and my relationship to BYU.<br /><br />When I first came to Provo I was an idiot. Seriously. An idiot. If I could see my 18-19 year old self again I would punch her in the face. That's the age when you think you know everything, but ironically you know nothing.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6flySO_TOGZzI_K3_Lw0xiJN7gVSZeHoYCuF3YJh8xVxuOpiV3vrYQlpiQYhrl20sg2MPKZnwOviAWLTHU8oljHERFWlQmQ5y6PCI_NKoBlLrWn6bLjj1v2uORBZuGh4D0OlZqKwag59E/s1600/Random+picture+from+freshman+year.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6flySO_TOGZzI_K3_Lw0xiJN7gVSZeHoYCuF3YJh8xVxuOpiV3vrYQlpiQYhrl20sg2MPKZnwOviAWLTHU8oljHERFWlQmQ5y6PCI_NKoBlLrWn6bLjj1v2uORBZuGh4D0OlZqKwag59E/s320/Random+picture+from+freshman+year.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558587765051397298" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />This is me at the end of my freshman year. BRIGHT blond. GROSS!<br /><br /><br />You see, I was a small town girl. I had small town ideas. As the Lord put people in my life, my world and consequently my place within it began to expand. I am so grateful that I finally caught the vision that I, ME, I could do it - I could do anything:<br /><br />Travel to Europe. Be a Research Assistant. Make straight As. Get 2 dates on the same day. Fall in love. Hurt someone so deeply they moved away. Make friends I will have for the rest of my life. Cry so hard it hurt. Laugh so hard I cried. Stay up all night playing. Stay up all night writing papers. See my success. Feel my failure. Change what I didn't like about myself. See examples of what I wanted to become. Find people who believe in me. Find my MANY PASSIONS in life. Begin to love and accept who I am. Learn what I need from others, and to walk away if it's not given.<br /><br />And somewhere along the way I sorta grew up.<br /><br />Thank you Provo. You held my hand while I stumbled, tripped, and sometimes fell along this journey called college...or life really.<br /><br />College is full of waste too. Wasted dreams. Wasted food. Wasted money. Wasted talent. For me, I wasted too many hours and too many late nights to stupid boys that didn't even matter. I wasted time thinking something was wrong with ME rather than assuming something was wrong with THEM.<br /><br />I wasted time chasing other people's dreams. I came to college and I refused to be an English major. I tried out 6 different majors. They were all horrible. But everyone kept telling me that I shouldn't do English. Yet, switching my major to English was one of the best things I ever did.<br /><br />I wasted time not being myself. I tried to fit my life, or my personality, to other people's molds and ideals. I was scared to face who I was. Sometimes reader, I am still scared to admit to myself who I am. But I'm getting better. I am learning to love all of me. Even my weaknesses and flabby stomach.<br /><br />Alas, I am sitting at the end of the first day of my last semester and I can't help but think back to the first day of my first semester. I don't even recognize that young freshman girl. Yet I know she's inside of me still...somewhere. She has melted away into parts, into segments of my self. I look back and I am ama<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWiIpTb4UciZNnbvZoBYkv1Lv1TwBEanqM1MrufhyK53AozUCcfbCoa61bNfCmyl295oTJM9gePh8yJQa_-eM5zxeko4OoNF_ytVNbER8EFU-7okAFCh3LJn_B_YTGCAfTpBH_VOhZXmXj/s1600/IMG_0437.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWiIpTb4UciZNnbvZoBYkv1Lv1TwBEanqM1MrufhyK53AozUCcfbCoa61bNfCmyl295oTJM9gePh8yJQa_-eM5zxeko4OoNF_ytVNbER8EFU-7okAFCh3LJn_B_YTGCAfTpBH_VOhZXmXj/s320/IMG_0437.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558581187917267282" border="0" /></a>zed. College has NEVER been what I expected, but it's been everything I needed.<br /><br />The truth is, I'm scared to leave. But I am ready to try out my wings. I feel as though they have grown a little stronger. I am ready to face the cold winds of change.<br /><br />Also, laptops (not desktops) are necessary; The honor code IS a good idea; Talking to the professor, while scary, is your best means for success; be the favorite roommate and clean your dishes; and never miss an opportunity to talk to someone new. You never know where that will lead you....<br /><br /><img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/Pictures/Fall%20Semester%202010/IMG_1024.JPG" alt="" /><img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/Pictures/Fall%20Semester%202010/IMG_1024.JPG" alt="" />ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-22659173989389971532010-12-29T23:31:00.000-08:002010-12-30T00:41:54.644-08:00you're NOT going to believe this...Ok reader. I've got a doozy for you. A 100% true and crazy story.<br /><br />I work as a server at a local mexican restaurant. We get a lot of regulars. Naturally, I befriend all of them...especially the really good tippers. 2 guys in particular I've connected with. Both are established, older guys. Perhaps in there early to mid 40s. One is a doctor, the other is a sound mixer for movies. They come in once every 4 months. Always together. Always when the movie guy is back in town from California. I always stop by and chat.<br /><br />One day the doctor, his name is Robert, came in without his friend. Naturally, I stopped by to say hello. In the course of conversation he asked for my number. I gave it to him. I was graduating and he said he wanted to send me a text every now and again just to say hello. Alright, I thought, innocent enough. I didn't think much about it. Before he left the restaurant, he asked me if I could go anywhere where would I go. We had always talked about traveling. He knew I loved it. Without thinking much I blurted out, Turkey or India. Maybe Africa. I said goodbye and went back to my tables.<br /><br />Later that night I received a text from Robert. Again he asked me if I could go anywhere where would I go. In response I told him I'm not picky...I love to travel so much...I was wanna go anywhere new. Soon he sent me another text in which he told me:<br /><br />If you're serious about an adventure, I'd love to share one with you. I'd pay for us to go anywhere in the world for 2 or 3 weeks. You choose. Anywhere you want to go.<br /><br />I couldn't believe it.<br />Was this for real?<br />I've had very real and intense fantasies wherein my boyfriend/husband/lover (you know whatever) would say the very same thing to me. And here it was. Someone was actually allowing me to perhaps live my fantasy.<br /><br />I didn't know what to say. I didn't respond for a few minutes. Soon he sent me another text:<br /><br />Imagine exploring the castles of England, soaking up the sun on an island in Greece or South Pacific, Christmas in Bethlehem, anywhere you want to go....<br /><br />He was killing me. Literally KILLING ME.<br /><br />I began to entertain the idea.<br />An all expense paid trip to wherever I wanted to go?! Ya...you don't just walk away from that...at least not right away. I love to travel way too much.<br /><br />I tried to deter him by telling him I might be a bad travel buddy...he came back with whatever your travel style is, you'll only add to the adventure.<br /><br />Crap. That didn't work.<br /><br />I finally admitted I would need time to think about it, and we'd certainly have to meet and actually talk about our potential travel plans.<br /><br />Swiftly he responded with:<br /><br />After a few trips around Salt Lake, Orem, and Springville we'll get to know each other better. Then we'll make plans to go wherever you want to go.<br /><br />Whoa. All of a sudden this little travel proposition had turned into a few dates. In hindsight, he probably should have started there. You know, dinner before Europe. But really, the expectation of traveling for free was what was getting him face time with me. So maybe he played his cards as best he could.<br /><br />I asked him why he was doing this. He said it was a graduation gift. And then....<br /><br />He told me he loved my energy. He had no doubt I was going to be successful. He was sure I was going to grab life and get every thing out of it I possibly could. He admired that about me. He loved to talk to me, and to be around me.<br /><br />I was flattered. But i wasn't blind.<br /><br />I knew he knew nothing about me. His only contact with me was at work, and I only showed him what I wanted him to see. He knew nothing of who I really was. And the reverse was just as true. I didn't know who he really was.<br /><br />He then tried to get me to go to dinner with him that night. I told him I couldn't...I was up to my elbows in research and revising. My senior thesis was due in a few days, and my only focus until then was my writing.<br /><br />He tried again to convince to take a break...that I still needed to eat. When I turned him down again he wished me the best of luck and I went back to writing. We set up a tentative date for the following week. After finals.<br /><br />Reader, don't worry this has a happy ending. If you know me at all, you know I have my head on straight (most of the time). When I make decisions I tend to make them analytically. I look at the situation rationally. A few hours of actually considering traveling with Robert made me sick. I couldn't be stuck in a country where I was completely dependent on a man for money, tickets, etc. Nothing is free. What would he want in return for his "investments"? I shuttered to even think about it.<br /><br />Late that night I laid down and couldn't sleep. I was so stressed. I was stressed about my senior thesis and the 3 other papers that were all due. I was worried about finals. I was worried about Robert and his plans for me. Yikes.<br /><br />My response to stress is to eliminate it as soon as possible. I evaluate what my stresses are and then decide which ones I can cut. So I sent dear Robert the following text:<br /><br />The more I think about it the more I know traveling with you is not something I want to do. So dinner is no longer necessary. Thanks for the offer though. That was very nice of you.<br /><br />BAM! I set him straight. I didn't want him to try and convince me anymore. I didn't want him to think for a second there was any hope. If you know me, you know I'm good at being blunt. I'd say this text was some of my best work....<br /><br />I never heard from the poor bloke again. If he comes into the restaurant, I'm totally going to act like nothing ever happened. I'm good at that too.<br /><br />But don't worry yall. My fantasy of my future man telling me....Ashley, let's go anywhere you want to go. Just you and me. 2 weeks. Anywhere in the world...you choose....(sigh)<br /><br />Ya. That's still fully in place. Robert didn't ruin a thing. If anything he gave me hope that one day my fantasy will be fulfilled, and hopefully by someone more my age.ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-46200008192707867102010-11-15T17:02:00.000-08:002010-11-15T17:09:34.401-08:00An Interview: Self-Conscious Blog Talk<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >I thought it would be nice for my readership to read an interview I had from a friend about...well...YOU!<br /><br />Ok it's mainly about "My Apple", but reader you're a part of my beautiful blogging-world, so read on and find pleasure in being a part of something that means so much to me.</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><span style="font-size:11px;"><span style="font-size:100%;">1</span><span style="font-size:100%;">. Why did you start your blog? I wanted a chance to practice my writing outside of scholarship and to discover my voice - in context with the world around me. Plus, I LOVE to write and I often get these overwhelming urges to write down all the thoughts getting jumbled in my head and I thought this would be a great place to "scratch my writing itch". To a lesser degree, many of my English friends had blogs and I enjoyed reading there's and I wanted to join them! As you can tell I thought a long time about doing a blog before I actually did it. I guess it was because I was resisting the urge to be, what I viewed, as cliche.<br /><br />2. Does your blog have a title? If so, what is it? It's entitled, "My Heart is an Apple"<br /><br />3. How did your blog get that title? I thought it was a great metaphor-you eat and consume an apple, but in my blog-world my heart is the apple you are consuming. I knew from the get go that my blog would be more personal than most and I thought the title reflected that. Plus, it's the title of a song i love by arcade fire. So i liked that too!<br /><br />4. How often do you post on your blog?<br /></span> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:11px;">As often as a thought is in my head and won't escape. Usually 4 or 5 times a month. During school it might be less... I tried doing everyday and that was lame. If you start writing about the everyday than that's a journal (in my eyes) and pretty LAME to read (and write about for that matter). Keepn' it real means sporadic and legit entries.<br /><br />5. </span><span style="font-size:11px;">What usually prompts you to post on your blog? I have a thought about life or myself that I want to share with everyone. Sometimes if something especially funny or fantastic happens to me I'll post about that too. Usually it's just observations. If I have one, I write.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:11px;">6. How many followers do you have on your blog? I have been REALLY shy about talking my blog up or telling people my URL. Mainly because I'm embarrassed people might not think I'm a good writer. And because I write about pretty personal stuff. So I don't have as many as I could...it's only 11. Which even admitting seems pretty embarrassing. That's a SAD number, I realize.<br /><br />7. Do you have any followers you don't know? No. But I do have followers that I know only vaguely and I have NO idea how they found me! Or I'll be chatting with a friend's mom and she'll say something like "oh ya I read that on your blog" or "I really liked your latest posting". It always shocks me because I had NO idea they even knew it was me or that I had a blog. I've tried to add a counter to my blog. But I have done so unsuccessfully. (Side note: could you HELP ME with that Anna?! I would LOVE YOU!)<br /><br />8. If so, have you ever had any communication with a follower you didn't know? No<br /><br />9. If you were to put your blog into a genre, what would it be? Creative non-fiction? haha I dunno. Drama?<br /><br />10. What is the general topic of your blog posts (i.e. food, family, photography, etc.)? My favorite topic to write about - ME! Or better yet, a single, white, Mormon, college student scared out of her mind to embark on life. Is that general enough for you? :-)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:11px;">11. Do you follow anyone else's blogs? Yes<br /><br />12. If so, what would you say the main purpose of you following someone's blog would be? If they are creative, write well, and give unique insights to life then I read it. I have to be honest, I LOATHE the blogs that just gush about how cool they are, or how much they did over the weekend, or how AMAZING their husband is. BARF! What a waste of time!<br /><br />13. Do you keep a journal along with your blog? Interestingly enough, my journal writing HAS decreased since I started the blog. Perhaps it's because being an English major I already write so much. Post-graduation I have no doubt that I will still publish blog posts and be a journal writer again. </span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:11px;"><span style="font-size:100%;">15. If not, do you feel you use your blog as a kind of journal (i.e. instead of a journal)? Yes, I think it's fair to say a lot about my blog is a bit journalish. There is a lot, however, that you shouldn't really publicize (and if you read my blog, I'm afraid that I might stray between this line of propriety every now and again) but there is something reassuring in putting your heartfelt feelings and thoughts out there for someone else to see. To validate your existence and your voice. To hear them respond that they identify with you. Or to know someone appreciates you. So sometimes I write in my blog when I'm wanting a human connectedness to my musings. <br /><br />16. Anything else you would like to comment about your blog...Yes, you should ALWAYS leave a comment! Because sometimes it's easy to stop writing posts if NO one ever puts comments. You think, "how sad. what's the point? no one reads this anyway", right? So you should leave comments on my posts!</span><br /></span></span>ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-89424314909365907022010-10-19T22:13:00.000-07:002010-10-21T20:54:47.919-07:00changes<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"What does it take to reach you, into you? What is the stimulus that will force you to act; what motivates you in your inability to conceive of yourself as something special? Will it take the death of a loved one? Will the values you consider valuable have to be destroyed? Is the knowledge of self so painful as to demand that you not accept it and continue to squalor in your naivete?"</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">-LeRoi Jones</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:donotpromoteqf/> <w:lidthemeother>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:lidthemeasian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:lidthemecomplexscript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:splitpgbreakandparamark/> <w:dontvertaligncellwithsp/> <w:dontbreakconstrainedforcedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> 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mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults ext="edit" spidmax="1026"> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout ext="edit"> <o:idmap ext="edit" data="1"> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--><img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-17.png" alt="" /><img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-18.png" alt="" /><img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-19.png" alt="" /><img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-20.png" alt="" /><img style="width: 481px; height: 432px;" alt="http://squallyshowers.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/romare-bearden.jpg?w=506&h=434" src="http://squallyshowers.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/romare-bearden.jpg?w=506&h=434" /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Reader, right now my mind and heart are a construction zone of change. I'm not sure what exactly is being torn down and what is replacing it - at least I can't see the complete picture just yet. But I feel a paradigm shift, a re-creation of my soul; it's exciting and beautiful.<br /><br />The picture and preceding quote seem to bear a representative voice for my new soul. I have to share it with you. I have to lay claim to my change. I have to own it, and accept it - in order for it to do any good.<br /><br />And reader...<br /><br />I have so many questions that appear to have no answer:<br /><br />How long will women continue to be victims of objectivity and bigotry?<br /><br />How long will men hide behind alternate realities and fear of responsibility?<br /><br />How long will America maintain a narrative of "whiteness" while ignoring it's BEAUTIFUL duplicity? (i.e. in Barnes and Noble there is an American Literature Multicultural section. Aren't people of ALL varying ethnic backgrounds American? Who is in the mainstream American Literature sections then? I'll give you one guess...)<br /><br />In short,<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">How long will we prioritize the more dramatic international causes over our own domestic needs?</span><br /><br />Reader what is YOUR knowledge of self? Are you continually shaping and re-shaping your identity and reality in order to shift into new modes of interpretation? What are your stereotypes and how does this affect your ability to love others? How does this effect your ability to see YOURSELF? Sometimes you have to fight, FIGHT! the product of your culture in order to see the bigger picture.<br /><br />Don't miss the forest because you only care, or have time for the tree.<br /></div></div>ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-8707771172005694742010-10-08T12:47:00.001-07:002010-11-01T21:43:06.179-07:00Thursday Morning EpiphanyFinally! I have found some time to write a new blog post. Have you missed me? I have missed you. You-who I don't even know, in the mass blackness of cyberspace-have somehow come to mean something to me.<br /><br />Can I ask you something reader? <span style="font-style: italic;">How do you learn to live? </span><br /><br />My teacher posed this question in class, and it struck my mind with such potency that I looked up from my writing with shock. Walking out of class, I wondered why this particular idea struck me so deeply? How did this apply to me? How does this apply to YOU reader?<br /><br />The question inherently implies that you are not fully living, and consequently must find a way around this predicament.<br /><br />Am I merely the blind man who hits the tree, but misses the forest?<br /><br />Someone told me once living meant pushing through-forcing your way through life and all its choices. Then somewhere along the movement, you will pick up the knack for living.<br />So is life a mere procession of action? There is no "fail" or "success" only "learned" and "learning"?<br /><br />Have YOU learned to live? Are you living, or merely surviving? Are you acting, or being acted upon?<br /><br />Sometimes in school I feel stuck in a box, and I can't wait to fly away and discover for myself what it means to learn how to live.ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-42442226376444358372010-09-13T21:04:00.000-07:002010-09-13T23:03:10.371-07:001994Peggy Orenstein's book, <span style="font-style: italic;">Schoolgirls</span>, suggests that girl's self-esteem is lost as they "dumb themselves down" and conform to lesser expectations as to avoid being threatening. According to her study, the girls by adolescence had learned to not be too outspoken, too aggressive, or too smart. Boys are called on more in classrooms, and boys (even at home!) were in fact listened to more than the girls.<br /><br /> <img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-12.png" alt="" /><img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-13.png" alt="" /><img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-14.png" alt="" /> <img alt="http://images.amazon.com/images/P/0385425767.01._SX140_SY225_SCLZZZZZZZ_.jpg" src="http://images.amazon.com/images/P/0385425767.01._SX140_SY225_SCLZZZZZZZ_.jpg" /><br /><br />What part of this has affected me? (What part of this has affected YOU reader?) Orenstein's study was published in 1994-not that long ago! Certainly the research was conducted in the prime of my educational development. Which begs the question, what have I inherited from such a biased and hostile environment?<br /><br />I can clearly remember the period in my life when I "realized" I wasn't "smart" like the boys in my class. I began to find my self-esteem, and largely my identity, in social groups, clothes, hobbies, and boys - not in school. I always had good grades, but I remained painfully aware that I wasn't "smart" like other people.<br /><br />Fast forward a few years.<br />I went to college.<br /><br />I came in contact with teachers who were women, who were beautiful, who were married, and yet not afraid to be themselves - they found identity and purpose in their intelligence. They were empowered by their intellectual development, not embarrassed by it. I remember being glued to my seat, listening to them speak. My entire body was on fire. I had FINALLY caught a shimmer, a glimpse of who I wanted to be. I had been walking around feeling empty inside, and I hadn't realized why. Looking back now, I see why. I had been "dumbing down" my mind's voice, and consequently, in a very real sense, I had been "dumbing down" my own life's experience.<br /><br />I have discovered my own source of empowerment as I have allowed my mind to be fully, and more completely developed. I finally have a voice I'm no longer afraid to let others hear.<br /><br />But then...<br /><br />Last weekend I was talking to a guy, and in the course of our conversation I used several words he did not know. He asked me to explain, and I actually APOLOGIZED for using words too big and then I proceeded to feel EMBARRASSED about using said words. As soon as the moment passed I thought about Orenstein's research. I felt disappointment, and shame as I realized I was STILL one of the girls from her 1994 research.<br /><br />Are you?ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-11084487385986340522010-08-18T00:08:00.000-07:002010-08-18T01:12:32.598-07:00conscience break with rationaliazation to followDo you ever have those days that seem to fly by, despite the fact that at the end of the day you have no idea what exactly you've done to pass the time?<br /><br />I believe summer was MADE for days like that. Sadly reader, I have this sinking suspicion that my lazy summer days are numbered. Soon, I will graduate. Society will force my hand at a job that will "keep me on task", include "fifteen minute breaks" and if I'm lucky a community "break room" stocked with a smelly refrigerator.<br /><br />Tonight, however, I smile and relish in the fact that it's 1 AM and I'm sitting naked, drinking herbal tea, waiting for a new cd to download instead of snoozing away the steamy, hot night.<br /><br />This brings us, however, to the crux of the issue. I have inherited - from my parents no doubt - a propensity for guilt brought on by an immensely <span onmouseover="sh(this)">bourgeoisie conscience. In other words, I get mini-panic attacks when I think about my pitiful savings despite the looming future that will undoubtedly call for payment. I can't help but chastise myself for not having at least 24 jobs-one for every hour of the day!<br /><br />Alas, the summer is almost to a close, and while I undoubtedly feel guilt for not having the minimum 24 summer jobs, I do feel a grand sense of delinquent satisfaction.<br /><br />This summer I have allowed myself freedom. I have been freed from the chains of an alarm clock, packed lunches, tyrannical bosses, bothersome co-workers, rigid routines, and the over all pains induced by pretending to work. (If you've ever worked for BYU you know EXACTLY what I mean about pretending to work.) All in all, I have given myself the opportunity for exploration and expression. I have followed after my own passions in order to see where they might go.<br /><br />Tonight I lie awake just to listen. </span>Some of my favorite sounds are sounds of the night: crickets chirping, a train blowing in the distance, wind passing through trees, (and more specifically to Florida) frogs croaking, owls hooting, and thunder rolling in the distance. It feels lovely just to listen. To take the time to hear. It's in these moments that I consider myself wise to have allowed one last summer of potential. Wherein every hour holds the likelihood for a new adventure, and the nights are just as lovely as the days.<br /><span onmouseover="sh(this)"><br /><br /> </span><img alt="http://www.claudemonetgallery.org/San-Giorgio-Maggiore-At-Dusk.jpg" src="http://www.claudemonetgallery.org/San-Giorgio-Maggiore-At-Dusk.jpg" /><br /><br /><br /><br />Completely Random Side Note: Reader this entry, and this blogg in general if I get real honest, has made it painfully clear to me that I'm a Romantic. Yes, that's right. Romantic with a capital "R". I'm not sure yet how to digest this. Any thoughts, for better or for worse, would be greatly appreciated.<br /><br /><span onmouseover="sh(this)"> </span>ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-25500415183703976672010-08-15T20:48:00.000-07:002010-08-15T21:16:03.483-07:00propaganda for arcade fire....parce que je les aimeArcade Fire has FINALLY come out with another cd! Never heard of them?!<span style="text-decoration: underline;"> <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=127118125">Check em out!</a></span><a href="http://http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=127118125"> </a>Under "Just the Songs" you can listen to 2 of the songs from the album. Personally, I'm in love...let me know what YOU think!<br /><br /> <img alt="http://www.athens66.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/ARCADE-FIRE-THE-SUBURBS.jpg" src="http://www.athens66.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/ARCADE-FIRE-THE-SUBURBS.jpg" /><br /><br /><img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-11.png" alt="" />ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-8242724140196286212010-08-07T12:29:00.000-07:002010-08-07T20:48:35.606-07:00how do i love thee? let me count the ways...Raplh Waldo Emerson. I love this guy.<br /><br />I love him so much, in fact, that I want to name my first unborn son after him. (Well ok the Emerson part of his name. I'm not really feeling Raplh. Or Waldo for that matter.)<br /><br /> <img alt="http://davidkiyokawa.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/ralph-waldo-emerson-5.jpg" src="http://davidkiyokawa.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/ralph-waldo-emerson-5.jpg" /><br /><br /><br />Verses penned by Emerson have literally changed me. My nature, thought process, and even self-image, have all been pulled out, examined, and redefined. Nothing is as it once was.<br /><br />Reader, what have YOU read this summer that has similarly made you grow and think? If the answer is nothing, then I highly suggest you change that. Experiment with the power of transcendental thought, and immerse yourself in the pages of "Self-Relience" or "An American Scholar." I say, without the slightest hesitation, that if you allow yourself the time to read and ponder, thoughts will play upon your mind that will unfold to you your potential as a human being, and a creation of our God.<br /><br />"American Scholar" poses the thought that you're not a banker, or a farmer, or a teacher, or a manger. Instead you are a HUMAN BEING who happens to bank, or farm, or teach, or manage. Our humanity is not defined by what we DO, but what we think and become. As children of the ALL KNOWING, we likewise have the potential, duty, and privilege of making our own pilgrimage to enlightenment-to becoming our own version of all knowing. We must climb the erudite ladder, with the focus of exploration our ENTIRE lives. Education is the power by which we gain awareness, and become-if we allow it to-closer to our God. In essence, we become like him, which is the destiny of all of humanity. By largely ignoring our minds and encumbering our intellectual reach, we are denying our innate objective-to be like God. Why then do we ever stop the search for higher intellectual awareness? Why do we ever stop learning?<br /><br />"Self Reliance" is beautiful because you begin to feel utterly convinced that you hold, within your tiny hand the power of all creation. You hold the power within yourself to become who you want to become. You need nothing more than your own intellect and will power. "A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across HIS MIND FROM WITHIN, more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages." Depend on the power of your OWN genius, and search out your OWN purpose, and look naught at others for emulation. "Envy is IGNORANCE; Imitation is SUICIDE." Stop conforming to what everyone else THINKS you should be, and truly be yourself. Envy and imitation only weaken the strength of your own soul-while turning your destiny into disarray.<br /><br />Reader, I hope this incredibly TINY bit of Ralph Waldo Emerson has made you too catch his vision of humanity-and therefore of yourself. I hope you can see the magnitude of your own power. I hope this has inspired you to pick up his work, and begin your own journey of self exploration.<br /><br />"To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men,-that is genius." What does it mean to be "genius"? Does it mean living for YOU? Is there really one truth for all, or is truth merely subjective? Perhaps the only truth that really matters is the truth you discover, for yourself, from within.ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-46193961737828799302010-07-22T22:06:00.001-07:002010-07-23T00:39:44.446-07:00Frivolity in Words, Excess of ThoughtOk reader how do you feel about the revamped blog?? I needed a change...so I started here. Don't be shy-tell me what you REALLY think!<br /><br />And if anyone could tell me how to add the gadget that secretly tells me how many people log on, that would be great! For the longest time I resisted the urge of knowing who, if anyone, actually read my blog. Naturally, curiosity has gotten the best of me. I'm hoping for no surprises. Well, a surprise or 2 would be nice! Ok so maybe I AM hoping for a surprise subscriber or 2...but, as they should be, expectations are low.<br /><br />I mean really, there are MILLIONS of blogs out there. Sadly, all you have to judge mine by-if you don't know me-is my title name. I can just imagine the likely perusal: "My heart is an apple? WTF?! I don't even know what that meansssss...NEXT!" I 'm missing all the arsty-farsty photographs in every nick and cranny....or pictures of unique places that I've been....or the extensive lists that proof just how cool I am. In short, I don't really "get" technology so my blog looks rather stark. Which brings me to the sudden change I've made. I think it's an improvement. I mean, I think I look cooler. Ok. New confession that's painfully obvious: I'm self-conscious about my blog.<br /><br />Reader, a sudden new thought has seized my heart! I'm going to stick my tongue out at my self-conscious self. So here I go....I'm making a list of all the things that I'm painfully mortified about. If I'm really brave, I'll never erase this list. (We'll see if it lasts through the night.) Phew. Ok. Here I go...<br /><br />Hopefully everyone has stopped reading this very frivolous and extremely pointless blog entry by now...fingers crossed!<br /><br />1. the plethora of grey hairs on my head<br />2. hair in general...i mean the hair NOT on my head or eyebrows. yuck.<br />3. my weight. duh. of course. i'm a girl<br />4. spelling. i'm a horrible speller! SPELL CHECK has saved me from embarrassment SO many times....unfortunately, however, not ALL the time.<br />5. i've got to be the worst person, on the entire planet, at math. i try to avoid any situation that may include anything more than basic addition, subtraction, and in some cases multiplication.<br />6. i snort when i laugh. it's embarrassing!<br />7. depending on what i eat...i'm a walking time bomb of gas<br />8. my eyebrows. do you know anyone else who has to trim theirs?!<br />9. my sometimes apparent lack of knowledge, culture, and (dare i say it??) class. Case in point. Perhaps this entry isn't the smartest, or classiest thing I've ever written. ha!<br />10. i wanna be a good writer one day. this blog is a pseudo scratch pad for trial and error. I expect to write a lot of really bad stuff, before something pretty good comes outta me. until then, i'm self-conscious about my blog/anything i write.<br /><br />Ok that lists feel pretty good. Somehow putting it out there doesn't make it so scary. Reader, if you've made it this far, then i suggest you leave a comment telling me what you think about the new blog diggs, along with something YOUR self-conscious about. Come on, show your self-conscious self who's boss!ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-82275136268649278622010-07-19T22:07:00.000-07:002010-07-20T00:12:06.533-07:00The" Real" and 2 words you really need to knowI saw Inception this morning. It was, I have to admit, absolutely AMAZING. The 2.5 hours I spent in the movie theater passed without me noticing, and when it ended I was sad to leave the world they had masterfully created.<br /><br />It makes my head spin, however, to think of the shear number of blog postings Inception will undoubtedly inspire. Therefore, I will keep my comments to a minimum in order to resist accumulating myself into the cliched masses of Inception bloggers.<br /><br />1. If you like Inception I HIGHLY recommend Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind.<br />2. As you watch, notice that time is extremely flexible and powerfully subjective. Then think of Stephen Hawking (genius!) AND my previous blog post. :-)<br />3. I love questioning the "real". This is why I'm an English major. Never be afraid to question your own perception of reality; never be afraid to question what you THINK is real.<br /><br /><br />That is all. Moving on...<br /><br />Reader, I have a confession to make. I have not posted anything for 3 weeks (thanks for noticing mom! it feels good to know someone anticipates my musings...)because I've been afraid of my own thoughts. Have you ever tried to run from, and ignore your own mind? Somehow you think if you can just pretend it's not there, it will eventually go away. But then one day you realize that all your pretending has actually been covering up pieces of you. You're then left wondering-who are you really? Has the pretense, and the facade been a process of self-discovery or self-denial?<br /><br />Reader, do you ever feel like you're the only one in the entire world that could possibly feel this way? Even as I write I wonder why I feel so save in confessing so much to the stark illusion of "real" and "readership" known as a blog? Which in turn begs the question, is my blog a catalyst into self-discovery or self-denial?<br /><br />In other news, I'm studying for the GRE, and in the process I have found 2 especially lovely words:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Gregarious</span>-sociable; outgoing; <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">enjoying </span>the <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">company </span>of other <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">people</span>...for some reason that word, along with it's definition, makes me smile<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Ebullience</span>-the <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">quality </span>of lively or enthusiastic <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">expression </span>of <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">thoughts </span>and <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">feelings</span><br /><br />I hope one describes me, and the other is something I offer to those around me.<br /><br /><img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-5.png" alt="" /><br /><img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-6.png" alt="" /><br /><br /><br /><img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-3.png" alt="" /><img src="file:///C:/Users/ashley/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-4.png" alt="" />ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7797103791505723899.post-87330349886905121672010-06-28T14:32:00.000-07:002010-07-05T00:10:24.948-07:00a man on the side of the roadI was driving on the freeway and I saw a homeless man walking on the side of the road with a dog. Seeing the man with the dog made me happy. I was happy to see he wasn't alone.<br /><br />I reflected back on my childhood. As a child I thought it was unfair that a dog should be stuck with anyone who was homeless. I assumed that if they couldn't feed themselves, then there was no way they could feed the dog. The dog needed to be with a family, and have a real home. That was the "right" way to bring up an animal.<br /><br />As I sped past the man walking along the freeway, I reflected on why I had changed so much. Why had the picture of a homeless man and his dog bring me so much joy? Instantly, and without thought, the answer came as a voice into my mind: "You've changed because now you understand what it means to be alone." Loneliness has been my great teacher; a demanding master, but one who has taught me greater empathy and love.<br /><br />A painful lesson, but one worth learning.ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01174326154900066666noreply@blogger.com0