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

My Wedding Shoes // Vintage Faux Film Shoot

        The sordid details: shot with Canon EOS Rebel T2i w/ kit lens. Edited with Camera Raw 6.3; Font used, JaneAusten.


My glorious wedding shoes arrived from BHLDN a couple days ago. They are everything I had hoped for, and more (not to mention the gorgeous BHLDN packaging!) Everything about these shoes by Chie Mihara is full of Ashleyness. I am so happy with them! From the softness of the leather, to the Mary Jane style, and the glittery gold stars...I knew these were "the ones." I had actually coveted them for months never dreaming I'd afford them, but then noticed they had gone on super sale just in time for my elopement. Score!

I could hardly wait to get my camera on these babies, so here's a couple shots I'm willing to share pre-wedding (10 days!) My goal was to create photos that look like they were shot in another era with a vintage camera/film, even though they're taken with a year-old DSLR (note: I am not anti-film, I just don't have any, so calm down purists--hehe!).

For a fun little prop, I used my favorite vintage telephone timer, which was given to me by my Grandmother (I used to play with this as a kid). Most of the vintage look/feel was done completely in-camera. Minimal editing was done in Camera Raw 6.3. (Aside: I am ashamed at all the JPEGs I've shot up until recently...! There is no reason not to be shooting exclusively in RAW!) All I did was bump the exposure a bit, increase the brightness and contrast, and darken the shadows. On the photo to the left I heightened the red/purple tones to match the other photo and seal the deal on the vintage/grainy/film goodness. Was that more than you needed to know? I dunno, I always like to hear people's processes!

Anyway. Life right now feels just like when me and Christie (my best friend since I was born) were kids and summer was full of excitement after excitement, starting with my favorite holiday (the 4th of July), my birthday (7/11) a week later, and then on to summer camp. Oh my golly, Pixies fans! I could barely contain my happiness then and that's the way I feel right now, too. So. I'm gonna wear these star-spangled shoes when I marry my honey boy and I'm gonna feel like the Miss Firecracker Forth of July Parade Princess Crazypants that I totally am...you sensed that, didn't you? Hehe!

Oh, and my mother's favorite shape is a star. These were meant to be on so many levels.

Love & Rockets,

Ashley

+ Fern +

For you color lovers.

I spent some time photographing one of our ferns today. I love them so much. Ferns always grew around my Grandparents' home when I was little. More on that another day. Today I'm dreaming of the future, which is somehow always intermingled with the past for me. Quite appropriate.

Remember when I told you about fern madness, also known as pteridomania? This is why you almost always see fern plants in photos or illustrations of Victorian homes. 

I am dreaming of our new home today. 1878 is drawing closer.

In 10 days I will be a wife.

In 11 days I'll be sleeping in a historic Southern mansion with my new husband.

In 14 days I will see The Alamo with my bare eyes.

After that, our new (to us) Victorian home, our new life. I am. Just. So. Happy.

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.