Flower Nostalgia // Peony, the Flower of Shame

Where I'm from the peony flower grows during that somewhat ephemeral time when spring fades into summer without regard to the calendar. When I think of them, it's in large pink and white blooms that feel waxy to the touch and are covered in busy ants seeking nectar. The flowers fade quickly, their petals turn brown and topple to one side like doll's heads until they fertilize the ground.

The scent of the peony is soft pink, just on the edge of white. Blush. Baby fine, but sensual. Distinctly female (if scents have genders, I think they do)...Aside: I started writing this yesterday and kept wanting to describe the scent as embarrassing, but kept thinking that sounds weird. Until I quickly scanned Wikipedia, which says that in the Language of Flowers the peony means shame or bashfulness. In the words of my dear Grandpa Dean (Papa): Well, I'll be!

Bushes of peonies grew outside my grandparents' house when I was young (maybe still do). I used to call them "pennies" and bring them indoors to fill the large, cut glass vase. My Grandmother would cut their stems with her sewing/coupon clipping scissors, which were silver and heavy and made a distinct squeaking sound that is one of many auditory treasures from my childhood that I still hold onto.

Enormous magenta peonies grew on bushes in the last apartment my former husband and I shared together. So many times those flowers caught my eye from our 3rd story balcony and I promised myself I would go down and cut a few to bring indoors to pay homage to where I came from. Yes, I am that sentimental. But. I never did. We lived there for two years and I never once cut any of those flowers. Each year they drooped, browned, and crumpled into the grass before disappearing altogether.

Funny that with everything that transpired between us when I think about it now, it's the peonies I didn't cut that bother me. I guess we all know that's not entirely true. It's easier to talk about the peonies than it is my shame (appropriate, given the flower's meaning) at having failed in my first marriage. Yes, failed. That's the way I see it. That's the way it feels and that's the way I have been made to feel by friends lost, words spoken to my face and behind my back, waiting in line for a quickie divorce with all those other sad girls...standing before a United States judge to say "yes, my marriage is broken, there is no chance it can ever be repaired."

My first husband and I used to buy peony-scented candles and perfumes for his mother. They were her favorite flower and grew outside her home in Southern Canada. I still love her and I still care about...well, all of them, really. I have learned that my heart can be broken, and there can be a billion excuses and reasons for that, but in the end what matters is that for seven years they were my family. It would be disingenuous to say now that it was all a big, loveless, childish mistake. It wasn't. And it didn't work out anyway. And that's life, and that's okay. No one could ever possibly judge me more harshly for this than I have judged myself.

I have a second chance now. In less than a week I will be a wife again. I am wiser now, more ready for the challenge. Being a wife is no joke and it's not easy. It can be wonderful, though with the right person by your side. This time I have someone who understands my ups and downs and knows how to communicate with me. I do the same for him and we are in agreement about the path to our future. That, in part is why this will be different and why this has been different for the past 2 years.

If you think it's weird and depressing that I'm examining (publicly, no less!) my previous marriage just days before my new marriage, then I would have to disagree with you. What better time than right before you commit your entire life to another human being than to examine your feelings for the first time that happened? If you cannot learn from your past, how do you expect to have a better future?

I am doing so publicly because I am not don't want to be ashamed anymore. And I don't want you to be ashamed either...for whatever it is you're ashamed of. We're all ashamed of something, aren't we? I'm no less human and I don't have a less valid story to tell just because I choose to do so on a public blog. I will never apologize for being an honest, genuine person, even when it may publicly cast me in a negative light. I can, have, and will continue to admit my failures and flaws as readily as my achievements. I don't consider myself a hero for that, it's just my way.

Having a second chance at love is a rare gift. I will not neglect to pay homage to where I come from this time. I will consider and honor the places I have been and the people I have had the divine gift of being able to spend time with. I refuse to enter this new marriage with an ounce of bitterness in my heart. I let it go and it makes more room for happiness and love. I will fill our new house with flowers. The peony is also known as the flower of honor and considered by many cultures to be an omen of a happy marriage. I feel that is appropriate, too.

Credit: you may purchase this beautiful print for framing
at this great Etsy shop: earlybirdsale

xoxo,

Ashley

At the Courthouse // Marriage License

                  Marble, glass, steel, and paper.

                  Date of birth, name, identification.

                  Secret smiles, photographs, documentation.

                  Yes, I'll marry you.

xoxo,

Ashley

Flower Nostalgia // Tiger Lily

Photo Credit: Royal Saskatchewan Museum

I used to pick tiger lilies in the backyard of my childhood home. They just grew there, it seemed all year-round, which isn't possible. Every memory I have is tiger lily colored. Stripey and dotted and somewhat sparkly amber, see-through copper like Visionware (remember that stuff?) or poking your sight through a keyhole that leads straight to a mid-afternoon autumn your first year of high school, complete with cheerleaders walking home from practice at 4pm, leaves crumbling to bits that will never be whole again beneath the requisite matching sneakers and rustling of pom-poms. The sun makes his last effort of the day to stream golden light down toward everybody we know, and then moves on to other places. Better places, we think.* 




Princess Tiger Lily is a character I know from Peter Pan. To me, she is mysterious and sort-of wonderful. She barely says a word so she won't betray Peter, even though this may get her killed by Captain Hook. I pick a flower for Princess Tiger Lily and put it in my wild, sun-streaked hair. Pretend, pretend. Run around in the grass with bare feet and pretend. My Grandmother has a book about our family history. In the first few pages some old ancestor gets off a European boat and kills a Native American woman who is sitting on a rock combing her hair. Several pages later, my Great-Grandmother is Cherokee (incorrectly remembered as Blackfoot, my Grandfather corrected me last October). Our personal histories can be so humbling. Sometimes even horrifying.

Photo Credit: Wikipedia

I make up a club out by where the tiger lilies grow at the edge of the yard near some tall trees that separate our property from a fairground. It's called The Cat's Eye Club and to be in it, you have to drink a Styrofoam cup full of green pickle juice. This will turn you into a vampire. I get several kids on my block to do so, including my brother. We do rain dances out by the tiger lilies, I suppose because of the Princess. We keep candy cigarettes rolled up in the sleeves of our t-shirts like Greasers. Little rain-dancing, vampire Greasers. 


One day when I am about nine there is a camp of what we simply referred to as "Army guys" out back behind the tiger lilies. They've got neat camouflage tents that look like crepe paper spider's webs and big green trucks and candy. I had seen a few old movies on TV and decided my neighbor and I ought to go down there and flirt with them. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure how many old movies I had seen at that point. It may have just been my natural sway toward being a throwback to a 1940s pin-up girl. Army guys? Flirt with 'em. An obvious choice. I'm also not sure I knew what "flirt with them" truly meant, but I knew it had something to do with Betty Grable, red lipstick, and batting one's eyelashes.


What a little character. 

Photo Credit: Wikipedia

In my twenties I bought some oily perfume called Tiger Lily and wore it all summer, even though it made a rash across my skin. I traveled to Saskatchewan with my first husband (sounds so much nicer than ex-husband), where the tiger lily is the official flower...except it isn't, it's the Red Western Lily, but it looks like what we've always (erroneously, perhaps) called the Tiger Lily. I have had lipsticks and nail polish in tiger lily shades. I have been a dedicated tiger lily admirer for half my life. And yet...I would not say it is my favorite flower. It is, however the color in which my memories choose to filter themselves through, creating warm feelings of nostalgia and casting everything I know in Pantone 7578U.

xoxo,

Ashley

* We is my best friend and me, duh squared.

Let's Speculate // Or, On Getting Better + the Foolishness of Hope Alone

This morning I was thinking about a random assortment of things I am excited about. In all honesty, my current existence feels a bit like when Santa Claus shows up at the end of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Pure excitement mixed with joy. A wholesome joy.

Yeah, I Instagram the TV...often, too. But...Look! It's SANTA!!!

 I thought to myself, "dang, it's amazing how life just seems to get better and better as time moves along!"

See that happy face?! That's my BEEEEE! face.

But then I thought: Wait a minute, there! "Just gets better" kinda sounds like all this just happened from nowhere and nothing. Like the Happiness Fairy swooped in and presented me with everything I ever wanted.

The Happiness Fairy comes with angelic light 
and looks a lot like a fat striped kitty.

How misleading! I can assure you, it wasn't without tears and decisions that outwardly seemed drastic (!) and to some, maybe even insane! Happiness really does take a huge amount of...courage! You know what I mean. 

Have a Dr. Pepper and listen to my rad, experience-based 
(meaning I messed up but learned from it & then made better choices) 
opinions/advice!

Then my mind said to me: Hey, sister (because my mind talks to me fresh like that)--What if nothing in your life--as it is at this very moment--"got better"?

What if everything stayed exactly the same as it is right now...forever? 

Would you be satisfied?

Interesting question, mind! That's what I told her.

So, I'm asking you, dear readers. Would you?

Life! You delicious, yet precarious thing, you!

Would you want more than what you have? Better relationships with the people you know?

You know these nice people, dontcha?

More money maybe?

More money for more In-N-Out, right...er...maybe that's me.

A better job? Any job?

A job is a precious thing and so is that adorable hat!

Would you want a room with a view? A cure for sickness? The admiration of millions? 

Everyone admires a girl with a...smile! 

Maybe you'd prefer solitude?

"Quit lookin'"

Or a pineapple Popsicle?

Delicious.

If you want anything--even one teensy little thing--more than what you have at this exact moment, then you must hear the moral of this raving silliness (or good sense). 

Which is this: Things don't "get better." 

They don't. No. And here are my thoughts on that, for whatever they're worth:

There are basically 3 courses of action.

You make things better, you make things worse, or they stay the same. In any case, it requires action. Even the "stay the same" option requires action, which is the action of choosing complacency. 

Ahhhh, complacency!

Everyone loves a plan...Stan (sorry, couldn't resist). Let's make one! If you're serious about changing your life, about finding achieving (!!!) happiness in this world, and about putting hope into action, then I suggest you start at the top. I have decided that the top consists of the most rewarding thing in life: Helping others.

(And if not helping others, then gardening).

There's that Happiness Fairy again.

I bet you thought I was going to suggest you start by working on yourself? Get a new hat, cover yourself in crystals, find an acupuncturist or a tattoo artist to stick needles in you, something like that? No way, man! 

I can still have that new hat, though...right?

I have learned the hard way that if we (we're in this together, you know) want to be truly happy, we need to get out of our own...uh...minds. Start thinking about others for a change! Stop obsessing over the things we think we should be doing (that don't really matter) and find out what we can do to make someone else's day...or year...or life a bit better.

And if you're doing that already, then try gardening.

He looks happy, doesn't he?!

Hope is grand, but it won't change the world alone. Hope is an atom, a building block, sometimes a catalyst. But without the extra effort of putting your hopes into action, the beauty of hope fades into foolish desire.

You think you're special? Talented? Sure, you do. And so do I! And so do a million other jokers just like you and me. What sets the successful and talented jokers apart from the talented, yet unsuccessful jokers is essentially one thing: work.

You think this joker--I mean, uh, former 
President Kennedy, sir--got on this fine coffee mug by 
dreamin' and not doin'? No, sir!


We can believe we are special and amazing all day long, as the 1980s taught many of us. But the piece that never gets enough press somehow is hard work. 

This is my Papa Dean. He has worked hard his whole life. 

He is my greatest inspiration in life and a hilarious and good person.

Most of us, depending on where we live and what obstacles we face, can be anything we want to be, sure! So long as we're willing to work for it. And working for it will mean failing and 2,000 hour weeks (wait, is that even possible?), getting your hands dirty and picking up and starting again at times...maybe even dozens of times! It will not be easy.

Two of the hardest working people I know, both successful. 

The left is my fiancee, Thom. He went to medical school in his 40s and

is now living one of his dreams (he's living many others, as well), which

was to help people by becoming a doctor. He's a good one, too. The best.

On the right is my aforementioned Papa Dean. 

He started working at the Pipeline after he got out of the Air Force

and then built his own cable TV business that was successful for many years.

I haven't always been so sensible when it comes to work and knowing what to do to be successful (yes, I do consider myself to be successful as a wife, homemaker, jewelry designer, photographer, and more). Here's the most entertaining reason for my prior lack of sense: I grew up playing with The Barbie Doll.


Don't roll your eyes! Don't say, oh blah blah, feminist rhetoric, blame the Barbie! That ain't my racket at all, reader dear. Not hardly.


Barbie was something, though wasn't she? Still is, maybe...it's been a while since I've been down that aisle. When I was a kid, Barbie was the coolest (and if you want to know the extent of my Barbie-obsession, take a look at my Pinterest board Barbies I Had). She could be an astronaut, a teacher, a neato teenager in neon clothes with her own hamburger stand and pet koala!

"A pet koala?! How fabulous!"

Unfortunately, life isn't the way it was for my Barbie. Shocking, I know. But we don't just change our outfits and accessories and suddenly have a new career. Nobody comes along and brushes my hair into perfect waves and drops me into a pink convertible next to a super hot Ken whose only goal in life is to take me on dates and then put on a tuxedo and marry me...all with that suspiciously plastic and yet good-looking hairdo. Hmmmm...!

Anyway. My conclusion this morning is this:

Your happiness is your business and your responsibility.

And yes, you may get that stitched on a pillow.

We all have to work for what we want in life. It will be difficult. It will be hard. Don't be lazy. Don't blame others for your own mistakes. But most importantly, don't be lazy. It's not as though we have all the time in the world.

Copyright for this goes to the awesome and 
inspired littlethingsstudio on Etsy. Own this print! Go here! 

When all else fails, even gardening, then read (or watch) "Anne of Green Gables."  Tried and true, my friends. Tried and true.

xoxo,

Ashley

P.S. This is a blog. It ought to be humorous. None of my advice is meant to replace that of your doctor, therapist, or other professional. I am just a happy girl who loves to share her secrets...which aren't really secrets, just obvious stuff most people apparently don't notice. Score! And as I put it earlier today, adolescence ends when we realize that by and large, no one cares about our many opinions. That's why I still look so young. :D
There, you feel good now, dontcha?