the antidote

I forgot how much I missed the quiet.

Maybe that's what I've been looking for after all this time. I rarely get any time with me anymore, in between all of the hours of work and driving and school and assignments and tests and conversations and advice and laughter and tears and who knows what else.

Sometimes you can get so caught up in everybody else's lives that you forget to live your own. You ask everyone else how they're doing and you forget that you forget to ask the same question to yourself. You try so hard to be there for everyone else that you forget to that you need things too.

And what I've needed most is quiet. It's different than silence, which is like quiet but forced, like in the library where there are so many people in a confined area making noise while trying not to make noise. Quiet is different than silence. It's about about ticking clocks instead of anxiously clacking computer keys. It's about peace instead of tension. It's about seeing the beauty in the barren apple orchards or the old wooden table instead of staring at stark white walls and gray carpet.

Quiet is calming, letting my mind think at its own pace, allowing thoughts follow whatever paths they want instead of redirecting them through music or people or words, or having to refrain from thinking in order to focus on the task at hand. Some people say a picture is worth a thousand words, but thoughts are even better because they are pictures created of words without needing to be spoken or seen, which allows them to be infinite. It allows me to find the quiet.

Quiet is letting my spirit break free of my body for a little bit, letting it start to find the fractured pieces of my emotional shell and trying to glue them back together with kind thoughts and smiles to myself and sunshine patterns on the walls.

Quiet is healing.

salt and stuff {like tears and broken hearts}

When they say Lot's wife turned in to a pillar of salt, maybe she just cried too much.

I mean, I know that's not really what they mean.

But that's how it feels---like I have tear tracks down my cheeks encrusted with salt, and soon the tears are going to trickle all the way to my toes, which means the salt will stay and slowly by slowly it will incase my ankles then my knees, and before you know it I'll be up to my earlobes in sodium chloride.

So it goes.

This was supposed to be a reward for finishing all of my homework, but here I am typing this while my to-do list remains on the desk beside me, almost completely unchecked. So it goes.

It's weird how fast things go, like first I was throwing confetti and then I blinked and now I'm surrounded by fake gold coins and shamrocks that are supposed to give you luck. So it goes.

You know what else is weird? How fast things change. Like that one day when I went into my bishop and then thirty days later I got this big white envelope in the mail, and now all of a sudden anything that has to do with Portugal is super intriguing to me. So it goes.

I know this post isn't about people dying (or is it?), and I honestly wasn't that much of a fan of Mr. Vonnegut---you can ridicule me all you like for that statement. I mean, I'm sure he's brilliant and all, but I just don't have a high tolerance level for things that aren't super clean. But still, out of all the things he wrote, that phrase has stuck with me. So it goes.

And so it goes. Life just goes. You come in all red and tears and new, and you go out leaving behind black and tears and old, and sometimes all you can say about it is, "so it goes."

Things change and seasons change and you kind of have no control over. I mean, I enjoy sunshine in February but that doesn't mean that I'm rooting for snow in May again. So it goes.

I learned the weirdest word the other day; you could almost call it serendipitous.

I was sitting in Relief Society looking at this 18-year-old girl standing in front of the classroom teaching a room full of other 18-year-old girls and I had this strange thought: "I wonder what is going on in her head right now." And for a just a split second I pretended I was Aubrey, wearing a mustard yellow skirt and blue earrings, probably with shaking knees and pages full of notes and a heart that was praying so hard that we would all understand what she was trying to tell us. And for a second, I stopped being me and started being her.

Sometimes I feel like I'm such an unique individual with problems and decisions and thoughts and emotions that are singular to me. But then things happen and I realize that I'm surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands, of people who are feeling and experiencing the same things I do---not to mention that they probably have a lot more struggles to deal with on the side. That's when I start to feel like just one more grain of sand on the beach. 

So it goes. 

things work out . . . question mark

there comes a time when you just don't have any idea where your life is going.

it's a little frustrating, especially for list-y people who want to have everything figured out and every square in the planner filled months before any of it actually happens. what's so bad about wanting to plan ahead?

I thought that I wanted to be in Paris by May, but maybe that's not quite right just yet. but then if that's not right, then what is?

on the way home from work, I was telling my dad about all of my fears, which is quite a long list---trust me, this is only the beginning of it:
I don’t want to go alone
what if I don’t get along with the people in my group
what if I can’t speak the language
what if I’m spending six thousand dollars on something that I’m not supposed to do?

I guess it all boils down to the fact that I’m afraid.
but let's face it, I’m afraid regardless of if its a mission or a study abroad.

sometimes I forget that my dad was eighteen once too, and that he had to face all of these fears. sometimes I forget that I can learn the lessons through someone else and not have to figure everything out on my own.

he told me that he finally realized that he could be afraid or he could get over it.
he took a step back and remembered that every returned missionary he talked to said that it was one of the best things they'd ever done, regardless of if it was easier than they thought or harder than they could have ever imagined.
he saw that it all worked out.

and so he stopped being scared.

I guess I'm just letting my fear overrule my faith, but it's a little hard not to after trying to figure this out for three months. I mean, since when have decisions ever been easy on me, especially ones that could affect the whole course of my life??

that conversation with my dad really made me think. it's not like I'd regret giving the Lord eighteen months of my life. would I regret it if I didn't? maybe. probably.

but what about my fears and inadequacies and inability to talk to people and not being ready?

as my dad said,
everyone else survived.
everyone else loved it.
everyone else made it through,
even when it got tough.

so why not me?

I feel like there are a lot of closed doors right now, not just closed, but locked up tight. no matter how I try to peer through the key hole, I can't catch a glimpse of what's on the other side.
but my dad said that when doors start to close and decisions get difficult, he takes a step back, lives the way he knows he should, and then somehow things open up.
it may take a day, it may take a month, but somehow, things work out.

well, I better make sure I'm living right because I definitely need some doors to open.
and in case you couldn't tell, I have one of the best dads in the world.

the stars are brightly shining

What a beautiful way to celebrate our Savior's birth :)

Words and Catharsis and Stuff Like That.

Hi, I'm back.

I mean, no big deal its only been like six months, and wow, I've missed my words.

I've been writing a lot---I mean, I am at college and that's kind of what you do on an all-too-regular basis. But I haven't written for me in a long time. Like, I haven't written about stars and books and best friends and adventures and lessons in spontaneity in way too long. And also, my roommates thought that it was spontenUity, not spontanEity, I mean, awkward right? Good thing I'm working on expanding my vernacular, so that I can teach them correct verbiage :)

Also. How weird is it that I just used "roommates" in a sentence, because now I actually have roommates instead of brothers? I mean, I've been living with them since September but it still kind of blows me away when I think about it, and how they've kind of become my family away from my family away from family and how we get along and how we all just love each other. It's amazing how the unknown just kind of works itself out.

All day today I've just felt this desire to get my hands on a piece of paper and a pen and just let everything flow. I guess that my keyboard works just as well, but its funny how you have all of these thoughts that are flying around inside of your head, but as soon as you try to catch one and analyze it and write about it, the thought flits just out of reach, always remaining tantalizingly close but never close enough to touch.

So now I'm here, writing and babbling and enjoying the sounds of the keys clacking and my thoughts humming and the sight of black marks on a bright screen, because it is cleansing and cathartic and beautiful, and the longer I sit here the more I realize that I've missed it. Not only have I missed it, but I've needed it.

My writing professor loves to tell us that writing is thinking.

"I write entirely to find out what is on my mind, what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I'm seeing, and what it means." 

- Joan Didion

So does that mean I haven't been thinking for the last six months? Most definitely not. I just haven't been synthesizing my thoughts or recording them as well as I could have. But then I had this epiphany, mostly because I read this quote: 

"The writers who get my personal award are the ones who show exceptional promise of looking at their lives in this world as candidly and searchingly and feelingly as they know how and then telling the rest of us what they have found there most worth finding. We need the eyes of writers like that to see through." 

- Frederick Beuchner

I realized that maybe I don't have the most beautiful words in the world, and maybe I don't have the most exciting adventures in the world, but I am the only person who will see the world through an Ashley-colored-lens, and I am the only person who will write about the world from an Ashley-point-of-view, so regardless of if I feel like I have something special to say, I do, and regardless of anyone else cares, I care, and regardless of if anyone else reads it, I read it. And by writing and reading and writing some more, I figure out what I really think and how I really feel and what I really see in the world. 

So basically, I think I'll start writing again, and not just writing, but writing for fun, writing for me. Will I be consistent? I'd like to say yes, but probably not. Will it all be beautiful and poetic and filled with rhetorical devices? Definitely not. But that's ok, because it will be writing and it will be mine, and for now, that is good enough. 

tears and tears and tears

It was Wednesday night, June 12, and I was at Girls Camp. Marohn and I had been talking for about an hour and a half, walking back and forth across the gravel road in front of our campsite. After going through a myriad of different topics, she started to share with me all of the things that she loved about her siblings. She told me with pride in her voice about her brilliant dad, her hard-working mom, her beautiful sisters, her talented brothers, and of course, her funny little brother Keaton.
We both talked about how smart and hilarious and skilled he was, and all of the funny things he and Weston (my little brother) did together. After all of the tears of the night, their silly adventures made us laugh.

Little did we know that Keaton only had 16 days left to live.

When my dad came into my room this morning and said that he had something to talk about with our family, death didn't even cross my mind. As the words fell out of my mom's mouth and the tears leaked out her eyes, the rest of us just kind of sat there, shocked.
For a few hours I was fine. My brain couldn't really understand or process what had happened.
Keaton, my little 6-year-old neighbor, dead?
That's impossible.

But slowly, as the day wore on, it started to hit me.

Never again will I hear a little knock at the door asking if Weston can play.
Never again will he show me the karate moves he learned.
Never again will we swing on the swings, or play board games, or have sword fights, or chase each other around the house, or tickle each other until we both laugh so hard.
Never again will I ask him "Hey Keaton, how are ya?"
and Never again will I hear "oh, I'm great!" in response.

And that little boy's potential.

He could have converted the world with his testimony, even though he was only 6.
He had the biggest smile I've ever seen, with bright blue eyes that seemed to light up the room.
He was a big ball of energy crammed inside a little boy's body.
He had a massive vocabulary - sometimes he would say things and I would do a double take, wondering how those words came out of such a little person.

I have some pretty funny memories with him.

One time I was home alone while my family was out running errands. I was in my bathroom getting ready for the day, when all of a sudden I hear the front door slowly start to creak open. I looked around for some kind of weapon to use (I guess my mind just goes to worst-case scenarios, haha) when I hear this little boy voice call out "Weston!! Can you play?" I started to laugh. I had been expecting some big burly robber, but instead I got to talk to one of my very favorite little boys.

Another day I was at their house, helping Marohn do her homework. Keaton really wanted to play, which didn't make a very good environment for working on math. I found two foam swords and challenged him to a duel. We raced around and around their basement, smacking each other and laughing and laughing. I'm not sure how much homework Marohn got done that day :)

In my digital photo class, I had to do some sort of hero assignment. I was kind of stumped, I had no idea what to take pictures of! Then I walked past Weston and Keaton playing upstairs, and as usual, Westy was dressed up in his Captain America costume that he had gotten for his birthday. I convinced them both to dress up as superheroes, and for the next 45 minutes, they jumped from Weston's bed with various heroic shouts and poses as I attempted to catch it on my camera.

Keaton and I always had funny conversations.

Me: Hey Keaton, how are ya?

Keaton: Great!

Me: How was your exercise today?

Keaton: Mm I haven't done it yet. I either do weights in my exercise room or jump on the tramp. The tramp is my favorite!

Me: Do you do weights on your own?

Keaton: Nope, with my dad.

Me: How did your family pictures go?

Keaton: Terrible for me, great for everybody else.

Me: Why is that?

Keaton: I had to sit for so long in an uncomfortable position.

Me: But did you smile big?

Keaton: Yes! like this...[huge half cheesy smile] :)

Keaton: Weston, I know everything about you!

Weston: How do you know?

Keaton: I guess I have a really smart brain!

Keaton: Hey Ashley, look at this!

Me: What is it Keaton?

Keaton: It's a chocolate rock [big grin]

Me: Whoa, where did you get that?

Keaton: My parents said that if I did my jobs for 6 days without being asked and without delay, I would get a prize!

All of these memories and thoughts flashed through my mind as my eyes filled with tears.

How could he just be gone?

Did it hurt when he died? Did he cry? Was he scared?

Is he with Him now?

And of course I cried even harder. 

Moroni 8 - "Little children are alive in Him."

Thank goodness for testimonies.

My mom was at their house all morning, helping to get laundry done and things cleaned up before Keaton's family got home.

Then I realized that wait, their family was coming home, and I would need to be there for Marohn. I would need to be strong and give words of comfort and help them feel better about the future.

So what did I do? Oh, I started crying even harder. 

A few hours later Marohn texted me, saying they were a few minutes away. Before I knew it, I was standing at in their kitchen, the only light filtered in through the windows, with people sobbing all around me. 

My mom went to his mom, and they hugged and cried and cried and cried. My mom had tears down her face, but his mom had lost all of her tears a long time ago. Instead it was a dry gasp of a broken heart. 

His dad stood there, a look of shock on his face. When his brother came to hug him, he grasped him around the neck and stood there for at least a full minute or two, and a loud sob was ripped from his throat. I think that was the worst part, seeing this man who I look up to for his strength and testimony and powerful presence, being so torn apart by the loss of his son. 

I hugged Marohn so tight that I worried I might crack her back. 

I'll never forget being in that home, the feeling that was in that room. The despair, the tears, the pain.

And yet we knew it would all be ok. That's what testimonies are for, right? But sometimes, you just have to cry anyways. Because even with a testimony, it's still hard. 

Later my mom, dad, Weston, and I went over again. We had printed out a bunch of pictures of Keaton and Weston that we had of them on their various adventures and play-days. When my parents first told Weston what had happened, his primary reaction was "Mom, let's take him a loaf of homemade bread!" So along with the pictures we carried two loaves of fresh wheat bread with two containers of homemade strawberry jam. 

We walked into the house again. All of the siblings were standing around in various stages of shock and tears. We all gathered in the family room, Weston on the floor with my mom, the rest of us grouped around him. 

He whispered to my mom that he needed a band-aid for his recent road-rash injury. Keaton's mom hurried to get one for him, and every one watched, riveted on Keaton's best friend, as my mom placed the band-aid over his scabbed knee and tearfully said "all better". 

Except it's not really all better. If only our hearts could be healed so easily, with big band-aids taped to our chests to hold the pieces together. 

One by one, Weston pulled out each picture as my mom explained the stories behind them. From their favorite games to hero costumes to birthday adventures, Weston and Keaton's adventures brought watery smiles and choked laughs. 

When Weston had finished, Keaton's dad softly thanked him for the gifts and for being Keaton's best friend. 

He said "Weston, do you know what I always imagined you and Keaton doing? I always thought you two would go on missions together. But I guess he got his call to serve a little earlier that we thought! And we won't be able to talk to him or write him, but I know that when you go on your mission, he will be there to help you. He loved the gospel, and he wanted to share it with everyone."

Fresh tears coursed down my face. Oh Heavenly Father, I know you need Keaton up there. But don't we need him down here too? 

Oh sweet Keaton. Serve your mission well. And someday, I know I'll see you again, except we'll both be perfect and glorious. 

And on that day, I'll say "How are ya Keaton?"

And then you'll say "oh I'm just great!"