Live large.

http://ashleyinczech.blogspot.com/2010/06/greatest-thing-in-world.html

Seriously, just read it.

Mission Blog.

So. Apparently this is the trendy thing for missionaries to do:

Instead of irksome email forwards, my ma will be posting all the emails I write home to this blog.

Not THIS blog, this blog:
www.ashleyinczech.blogspot.com.
It will also have any and all contact information you will need in order to talk to me.


I suppose this is a good time to offer up my 18-month guarantee:
If you write me, I will write back. Promise.
This offer may only last for the duration of the mission. Unless you prove yourself to be a worthwhile
correspondent. $20 instant rebate. Other toys sold separately.



This is me giving you permission to stalk your little hearts out. Ready, go.


photo.

Some thoughts.

Monday I was reading Ether 12 again. I feel as though I’ve read it hundreds of times, but this time I stole to eternity on it.

Remember Ether 12:26—maybe the second most popular scripture in the Book of Mormon? The one that people cling to in hopes of becoming better men and women? Well, the context is HUGE. Or perhaps I made it huge. I couldn’t really help it, it just steamed off the page in hot importance and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. Why did I never realize this before?

Moroni’s talking about his weakness in writing. That’s the weakness he’s asking God about. And that’s when God tells him that, with faith and humility, He will make weak things become strong unto him. He will even make him a better writer.

And he speaks of the brother of Jared’s writing—it shakes souls, that’s how powerful it is. I would probably have a mad crush on him if I could read that. But the writings were sealed up until we had faith like unto the B of J—faith to see God. Perhaps that’s the only way we’ll believe it. Accept it for what it is, rather than ranting and raving and tearing our hair out like wild things, because the truth hurts.

We’ll eat you up we love you so.

Then I thought, maybe, with that kind of faith, I could be that kind of writer. And I thought of all the great writings of truth and the faith that those greats must have had. I’ve taken it for granted, I suppose. Thinking they just dipped their quills in ink and the genius flowed out of them in a long series of scribble scrabbles that I will never be able to achieve. The tikka tikkas of their keyboards must ring louder than mine do. But “faith is the moving power of all action in us”*. It even makes us write. Faith in what? In God? In myself?

In all truth, I suppose—in the way things really are. Who wants to read someone who’s fooled himself about the life and lives around him? No delusional sentences, we want palatable evidence of those mouth-watering things that keep us going. Real reasons to hope, great lasting loves, honest humor. Actual pains, not gilded ones.

Perhaps, for this reason, I have difficulty stomaching the over-dramatized. The truth is forceful enough, there’s no need to get in its way.

The difficulty is noticing the truth through the smog. But once we’ve found it, truth practically begs us to take hold.

And then the genius happens.

Note: this is why I have the hots for Paul. I’m pretty sure he and I were spirit lovers before we came to earth.

Another note: I shouldn't have written 'great lasting loves'. Because not all loves are great or lasting. Not all truth is strength, it's also weakness.

*Lectures on Faith 1:10

Can I possibly get enough of this song?

Not a chance. Ladies and gentlemen: Laura Marling.

D r i p p p p p i n g .

Today I am dripping for good—in behalf of good.

Last time I dripped for injustice and misromancing and all sorts of hurts, but this is different.

This is Spring at her finest, baptizing the earth with her sorrow. It’s not just rain, yet it’s very mildly hail—perfect for soaking the grass, the street, my hair. I play they listening ear and let her cry onto my shoulders, though I’ve never quite understood the need for shoulders in sadness. Your head is already pushing out all the emotion anyway—it should be feeling lighter and lighter all the time; however they almost always sag. And if shoulders are good for anything, they are good for staying square and supporting things that are feeling circular. And when circles themselves finally bottom out we have tears. Tears for washing away grime and accidents and weariness and death.

[Harder tears—hail—could be like exfoliating. Man, I love exfoliating.]

And once it all begins to fall you know you’re finally allowing yourself to be cleansed. To get all the yuck from the inside, out. There is nothing so immediately healing as a cry, except maybe a sleep. Then why do I fear tears and not zzz’s? (I don’t even snore, so why did I put that? What do zzz’s have to do with anything if you don’t snore?) Ahem. Then why do I fear tears and not naps?

Perhaps if I were a witch doctor I would cry people instead of bleeding them. It would hurt just as bad, in some cases, but I’m sure that the effects would be much more therapeutic. I would employ my apprentices to sit and hold drooping heads with their square shoulders; they would be forbidden to ask about “the matter”, but would merely sit and hold and be that one person who cares without requiring any explanation—without any words at all—and makes the whole world right; there would be no problems for fixing, merely the crier and the holder and the liberated tears. That’s healing.

I begin at a run, but the wind overpowers me and DK’sJungleMarioKartspikeballs of a hailstorm pellet that maybe I should just go back where I belong. Reprimands. So I slow to a walk and soak myself in it, taunting them and enjoying the seconds in a self-inflicted, who cares about anything, 7 years-old and invincible sort of way. For a while now I've prayed to understand crying and to embrace the fact that I cry. Today I know, even the earth cries. And today it's not scary at all, it's meaningful. At the end of the street someone has left the sprinklers on and the wind blows them at me all the way around the corner, angrily.

We are unburdening ourselves, relieved and optimistically new, this earth and I.

I count seconds between lights and applause—a mere mile away. I even think to myself for a brief second: wouldn’t it be romantic if I were struck by lightening?

I take the sprinklers at a run, the second time around. They (and the wind) are surprised by my agility and hold back their onslaught just slightly.

As a last tribute to Mother Earth I approach the back yard and strike a tree pose, fingertips needled at the sky, right leg bent.

It just seemed appropriate.

Impulsive Me.

Good advice from anonymous rebel of Iași, Romania.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about impulses. I’ve come to determine that the closer you are to God--to the best version of yourself--the more you can trust your impulses. And the more you must disregard second thoughts. A few weeks ago, I had an impulse. Looking back, I’m sure it was a divine thought, because it definitely wasn’t my own. But all my fallible human “intellect” pushed the thought away—hid it, buried it, tucked it in a place where I thought (hoped) it could be ignored. And the moment passed me by.

Later. I thought about it. I realized that acting would not have yielded any real danger--maybe some slight discomfort. But this discomfort made itself huge and important in my thoughts, until I allowed it to overwhelm the original idea. I allowed it to. And did nothing.

I am learning from this.

Today, I am on a special quest to follow all good or even harmless impulses.

Often they’re trivial victories:

Didn’t put on foundation this morning.

Drove to church for a meeting, left the car there, and walked home.

Stopped and sat on the bench facing the fountain pond for a while.

Read for a while there.

I prayed there. And knelt down on the grass. Cold damp earth, and tights. Where people might see.

I read the end of Job. And wrote down all sorts of thoughts about it.

And those aren't even all of them! But they made this morning all its own. And I loved them for it.

Nearly home, I found myself rejoicing in all these simple impulses I’d decided to follow—and in the glorious morning I’d had because of it! Why wouldn’t I follow every one of my impulses? Life was good. Life was unpredictable and spontaneous. Life was purposeful.

Then. THEN. Just as pride filled me near full, I took a look at the house across the street from mine. My parents knew them—I’d met them once or twice before, nice people. They had a son home from college. From afar he seemed quite good looking. I’d had an ongoing joke with Molly about finding ways to meet him ever since Christmas. No such luck. I’ve seen him climb into his truck as I’ve clambered out of the Camry, already inside the garage. I’ve mistakenly stared at him as I jogged by, forgetting that when I don’t put my contacts in and can’t see others, they can still see me—especially when I’m squinting and staring in a laborious sort of way.

I stood there on the sidewalk for several minutes, watching the house. Not sure what I was watching for—signs of life? The entire street was still, although his truck was parked right outside. If only he’d appear and I could just walk up to him and introduce myself. At this point, my desire to meet him had very little to do with his good looks. I wanted to cross this alienating distance between neighbors. We were about the same age—who knows? We could develop some sort of friendship. If nothing else, we could wave at each other as we climbed in and out of our cars together. Waving is nice.

What if I just knocked on the door and introduced myself to him? As soon as I had the thought I cringed. No. NO. It’s 10:30 on a Sunday morning—people are lazy and do not wish to be bothered. And how weird would that be to knock on the door just to introduce myself to him? Can anyone else say desperate?! They’d think so.

Then I realized what I was doing. Second guessing. Talking myself out of it. How much harm could meeting him do? A little: maybe they’d be weirded out. But not much. So why was I still frozen to the sidewalk on the other side of the street? I contemplated my situation: I could turn around and go back inside, comfortable. Easy. But hard: I was on a roll. If I let this impulse slip by me, how much easier will it be to let future impulses slip by? I’d soon be picking and choosing impulses as I pleased, until my rationale could be that getting out of bed took too much effort; I was comfortable. Blast it, no one gets anywhere in this life by being comfortable. Soon enough I wouldn’t even be able to recognize an impulse that scratched its way up my back.

Yet, if I did do it—how much easier would it then be to follow my next impulse? Whatever it was probably could not compare much with this. I laughed at myself: only a moment ago I had rejoiced in my own spontaneity. Now, at the first sign of a challenge, I was ready to back down. I had to do it.

Before I realized it, I had begun taking steps across the street towards his house. All I was going to do was knock, ask for him, and merely introduce myself. Tell him that I’d seen him around and thought it about time we’d met, since we lived so close. I was knocking on the door.

Dogs. Barking barking barking. If they were home, they’d know someone was there. Waiting. I should knock again. What—be rude and creepy?! I knocked again, more timidly this time. But still a knock. Waiting and barking, barking and waiting. Finally my stomach made its way back down the walkway and my feet followed.

Nothing!

Buuuuuttt....

I DID it.

Impulses this way, if you please.

HERE I AM, IN ALL CAPS

Things I love, typographically shouted:
(as suggested by Brooketh, in her own cap'd list)


1. HARMONICA. Love learning to play it, love listening to it. Love its portability and versatility. Love how cool and jazzy it is.

2. LIBRIVOX. Last weekend's best discovery. All books that are part of the public domain are available for download in audio format, completely free. And it's not stealing--really!--it's just free. Awesome. Trust me, janitoring while listening to Walden and Emma is way cooler than regular janitoring.

3&4. FREE THINGS. As in, a free JOSH RITTER concert on April 17th at the record exchange. Kind of folky, totally original, Josh Ritter is a cinnamon swirl rain shower for ears. And I love him. Check him out.

5. ROMANS 8: 35-39.

6. BANANAS AND PEANUT BUTTER. I think I've eaten it at least every other day for the past two months. Can't stop.

7. RUNNING. I love escaping the world and pushing myself. I love when I've run enough that it suddenly is easier than I remember it being. I love that slightly bigger feeling in my chest afterward, as though my heart has been pumping iron. All the better to love you with.

8&9. THE TEMPLE. And MISSIONARY WORK.

10. WEARING TIES. But not Avril Lavigne sort of tie-wearing. Today I am basically dressed like a boy. A fancy, churchy boy.

11. STUDYING. Really searching a thing out, gathering pieces of it up in my thoughts and realizing that this is like this, which is tied to that, which relates to all he said before, which is beautiful. The more I study, the more connected I feel to the world around me.

12. ROAD TRIPS. Provo, I'm coming. Brick house, I'm coming. Romania girls, Molls, Beks, Easter, Conference, Dean family gargantuan dinner, Eagle kids, college life, writing center--don't worry, I'm coming. Wed-Sun. Let the wild rhompus begin!

And this is where I pass the invitation on.
THE THINGS YOU LOVE IN ALL CAPS. KAZAAM. GO.

Spring Break!

Take a look at the heavy sort of work I'll be missing all week:


PROVO, here I come!

Heartsick.

I can feel myself aching today.

Aching for sounds of fluid R's and round A's in a foreign tongue.

For the feel of tiny hands curled around my fingers.

For burning uphill/upstairs walks in heavy heat.

For the ability to read someone's eyes and know exactly what he's saying because he can't speak at all.

For that satisfaction that my life is not my own.

For that wonderful, painful heartsickness that happens when you're loved by a child.

I haven't been able to get Romania and the summer of 2009 out of my head for the past few weeks. I can't stop wishing that I were there still. Too much downtime.
I have posted a video I made of my experience to my old blog--www.woodswordsandwildthings.blogspot.com

I had to make it private for confidentiality reasons regarding the orphanage and the hospital I worked at. A few of you are already familiar with this blog. If you feel that you should be, but are not, let me know and I'll send you an invite to it.

For the rest of you, here's an excerpt from the land my head's lived in for the past little while:

Post from 6.17.2009

I am growing more and more attached to those munchkins at the Dancu apartments. I'm starting to wonder if I will be able to make it away from them. I feel like I talk more about the funny/terrible days on this blog than the good days, so I am not going to share anything about today.

Yesterday, however, they were all little angels. Really. In fact, so much so that I found myself ver

y much surprised. Ellie Young, of the BYU Special Education department, who specializes in behavioral analysis and correction, is visiting this week and accompanied us to Dancu yesterday afternoon. I'm not sure if her presence had anything to do with it, but they we better than they have ever been before while she was there and I found myself a little disappointed because I had wanted her advice regarding the difficult times, rather than the easier times. At the same time, however, I couldn't help but be delighted because it felt like we were really making progress with the kids! Some things that happened:

-B---, who only says so many words, said mulțumesc several times and sang the song back to me that I have been singing to him for the past two weeks.

-At the park M-----a started pushing C------ in her swing! And we didn't even facilitate it!

-C------ was being very independent, which is un

usual for her. While typically she takes a lot of encouragement to try new things and do things on her own, yesterday she finally learned to swing by herself and even took to Ellie very well, instead of being her normal, shy, C------ self. And she walked part of the way home by herself, without holding anyone's hand. Normally the workers don't like them to walk without holding someone's hand because they can run off if we do this, but C------ is usually too scared to anyways. So she is proving to be a lot more self-assured lately.

-M----n had the cutest bedhead when he woke up. And when we went to the park, instead of sitting quietly and watching all the other children, as he often does, he kept swinging and then yelling my name across the park for me to look at him.

-Once, while we were at the park, M-----a climbed up the biggest slide and yelled for the worker, D---, to look at her: "D--- uite!" And with a cursory glance, all D--- said was "stai cuminte", or 'stay good' and then went back to sitting in glowering silence with B--- on the swing. And M-----a literally slumped and slid her way down. This made me realize how important encouragement is--that most of the progress we've made with M-----a so far is probably due to the attention we've given to her for the positive things that she does. No wonder she does so

many naughty things--it's the only way she ever gets the attention of the people whose approval she craves most. Sometimes I wonder how things will be in the fall once we've gone and things go back to the way they once were.

------

Children come and go here like the rain. Just as I begin to really enjoy the cleansing, cooling wetness the heavens dry up and I am left steaming as I trudge through mud and puddles. And as I walk up the six flights of stairs I am greeted by the old woman who lives beneath us with "mai plouă?" So I whisper back, "Nu. A terminat."

Andrei left the hospital today.

It had been a while since I had seen him and I was surprised at how much weight he had gained--his face put on a winter coat for the summer. As we walked by his room in search of the other girls his scratchy little voice accosted us to give him a toy phone he dropped for our benefit. We went to him, his excitement in seeing us reward enough, and he begged to be taken outside, despite the rain. And then the nurses came and told us that his foster mother was supposed to come in ten minutes to take him home with her. For good. So I

stayed with him while Keilani sought out Alyssa, who had grown closer to him than any of us. She and Breanne came, looking very put out at the news. And the four of us spent a glorious hour with him, waiting for the dreaded 'mother'. And remembering him in the beginning--badly burned, tied to the bed, weakly moaning "Mi-e foame" over and over again. And admiring this cocă while talking to a woman about the Church, which is difficult in Romanian. Then, just when time had planted a seed of hope within me that, perhaps it would not be today, she came: a small, skinny woman, with more bangs than anything and more nose than bangs. This arrested our fun, mid giggle. The nurses

explained who she was to Andrei, who resisted until she promised that she would take him outside, and then he warmed up to her. We watched as the disheartening procession down the hall and back in to his room, fighting back tears and feeling silly for being so selfish, yet still wishing he wouldn't go. They came back out of his room and he was all decked out in newer, smarter clothes--in shoes that actually fit his chubby picoare and a knitted hat that would have been appropriate, except that they rain had stopped now and the sun shining as though it had never been. A crowd of interns and patients stood and watched them emerge. He turned, saw us, waved proudly, and then, at 'mother's' behest, he ran towards us into Alyssa's outstretched arms.

And then he marched stoutly away from us, hand-in-hand with a woman who seemed smaller than he was, who would not know how much he like dogs or that he does not really know how to eat bananas or he doesn't really like to be teased or that he goes rotten if you spoil him too much and starts spitting, or that he has the biggest, belliest laugh in the world.

And after that we didn't feel much like doing more, so we gave the woman a pass along card and headed for home. It was hot again and I felt that nothing seems very predictable here.

On Second Thoughts

If Procrastination were something visible, tangible—some actual creature that keeps us from our better selves—I believe it would be a terrible shape shifter. Maybe something like one of those Grow A Boyfriend’s: just add time and one day it will be large enough to control you. It would begin as something harmless; a bunny, whisper soft and vulnerable and endearing and completely harmless. What does it matter how I put it off as long as it gets done, right? Perhaps it’s even important, right? I need this time for me, to rejuvenate.

Then. THEN. It grows ever so slightly, while your back is turned. You spin around and it saddens those big brown eyes at you and everything seems fine—it’s a rabbit, for crying out loud. And this game of signs continues while an unseen suspense grows, until one day you realize that it’s not a rabbit, it’s not just Procrastination, it’s big and frightening and ugly—and it’s all wrapped up in your fears. Fear has been keeping you from the work, the effort, the genuine caring that all successes in life spring from.

If I don’t really take the time to write, I’ll never fail at writing.

If I don’t send this letter, he won’t have the notion to hate me for suggesting that he’s wrong.

If I don’t dial unprecedentedly, I won’t be too-friendly-and-in-an-awkward-situation again.

So we distract ourselves with whatever triviality we choose for blanketing our fear while it grows. Hey, if I don’t see it growing at me, it’s merely remaining, isn’t it? Remaining to be dealt with when I’m better suited to face it. Facebook helps me stand up to it.

I am over these silly fears. Who ever came up with the idea of thinking twice about things? Often, I’ve found that thinking about something more than once only gives fear time to giftwrap a good idea with gaudy worries. And who wants that sort of packaging?

Give me back my unadulterated impulses.

No second thoughts, obviously.

Today: a kick in the shins. or four.

I am a substitute teacher.
I really like being a substitute teacher.
However.
On occasion, it is rough:

If only this picture did the state of my poor shins justice.

Today I worked at Meridian High School. I've spent approximately 3 of the last 7 weeks working there, because we seem to find one another so agreeable. I work as a signing assistant for a 17 year-old boy, who just so happens to be both deaf and autistic. And very large.

Bekah and I have affectionately named him Fezzik, because he seems to come up in so often in conversation.

We laugh about it, but you have no idea how closely this picture resembles the guy. So perhaps he's not quite so tall, but with a slick haircut and a thin pubescent chinstrap, this picture would be fairly accurate.
Because he has difficulty communicating, Fezzik tends to bang his fist against things to express himself: lockers, tables, doors, windows, himself, me, etc. It doesn't necessarily mean he's upset--often it means he's excited or bored or really just needs someone's attention. When he's upset he's a medley of aggravated bangs, kicks, spits, and dirty looks. These are things we like to discourage. In fact, the hired Behavior Interventionist and I have begun making him sit on the floor when he does this, which has worked out pretty well. It is very peculiar--often, when he is upset, he'll cause an uproar with his banging and then sit down on the floor immediately when you tell him to. Like he knows he deserves the punishment.

Today he wouldn't stop banging. I told him to sit on the floor. He didn't like that idea much. He furrowed his brows at me, folded his arms, harrumphed and spit.
And kicked me in the shins. Repeatedly. You may be pleased to know that I held my ground. I didn't give in. I told him (signed to him, really) that he knew it was coming and that's what he had to do. And he sat and pouted and pouted and sat. I placed a makeshift screen by him to rid him of other distractions. Then I picked up a random book. Read a little bit (and realized it was a book I'd read once in middle school), played with some other kids in the class, helped one with an art project. Occasionally I saw him looking over his shoulder at me, even though he'd made a big show of turning his back to me when he knew I was looking. There were a few reprisal bangs on the counter throughout it all.

Finally, I turned around at the teacher's beckoning to find him sitting there, on the floor, the bitter taste of defeat grimacing at his mouth. And the rest of our time together went beautifully.



Moral of the story: never wear a skirt without some sort of boot to work again.



More on Shins, for your listening pleasure:

Add to a playlist More from this artist

P.S. ...It's Simple Love... is having her first giveaway--awesome authentic Peruvian earrings. Check it out!

Family. Fort. Food. Fawesome.

The other day I had this idea.

And so...

we made calzones:


and ate them in this:

why didn't I take advantage of my dad's engineering experience back when I did this on a regular basis?

the best part-- Danielle (too cool, too teenaged, way too in to her cell phone) got a call from one of her too cool friends:
Uhh, yeah I'm eating dinner with my family right now...in...a fort. (Beat) Yeah, my family's weird.

Someday, I will be one of those parents that makes a point of doing dorky things to embarrass her kids. every. single. day.


And someday they'll thank me.

First Thursday.

Today my headbands go up for sale, exclusively at

The Box in the Basement

a swanky little boutique featuring local handmade goods in downtown Boise.

As today is First Thursday (i.e. the first Thursday of the month), a ton of restaurants and shops in the area will be opened late--I think Ballet Idaho is even doing a special performance!  

So COME!

FOR MORE INFORMATION ON MY HEADBANDS AND [ME QUA CRAFT], VISIT WWW.MEQUACRAFT.BLOGSPOT.COM OR CLICK ON THE PICTURE LINK TO THE RIGHT.

The Thrash.

So I have a friend that sent me this scripture, once I told him of my mission call:

D&C 35:13-15

And then he called me Ash the Thrash.  Which is better than awesome. 

So, from now on, if you wish to talk to me, please address me by this newer, more appropriate and awe-inspiring name. 

Or I will wrestle you to the ground and make you feel the power of the Thrash.



Thank you.

Dear Lord Saruman, Orcs are gross.

I am sitting here, watching The Fellowship of the Ring.  With my sister, who wanted to watch it because her young mind barely remembers it, who is currenlty not watching it because she is asleep.  And then Cate Blanchett's character says this:
"Even the smallest person can change the course of the future."

And I think that's cool.  And that gets me excited for this:

Some fun facts about the Czech Republic:

it is in the exact middle of Europe

Population: 10,230,060 (approximately)

Prague is its biggest city, with 1,285,995, and is three times larger than the next largest city

it rains on average every other day during the summer

average winter temperatures are always below freezing

  

Czechoslovakian communism ended in 1989--only 21 years ago

Czecans commonly say Ahoj (pronounced: ahoy) when greeting friends; like pirates

It has one of the least religious populations, along with Estonia, in all of Europe: 59% claim to be agnostic, atheist, or non-believers

the country's first president in 1990 was a former playwright

the English words pistol, polka, and robot come from the Czech language

Happy Valentine's Day.

Yesterday my dad could not get away from work.  Thus, I was charged with the task of picking up flowers and a card for him to give Maa for Valentine's day. 

I realized there, in an overwhelming Albertson's isle that boasted an inordinate amount of hokey ways to say the same generic thing, that greeting cards do not equal romance.  I have never been one to despise Valentine's day.  In fact, I am all for celebrating love.  

However.

Give me a piece of loose leaf torn from a free notebook with a person's real thoughts scribbled on it.  

Give me a single flower hand-picked from the neighbor's garden. 

Perhaps if I were in love with Mr. Hallmark, such cards might mean something to me.  Yet, all it seems to really say is, I haven't thought enough about you to have much of anything to say on the subject.

...

Except this card:

This card really speaks to me.

In spite of the man, I hope you allow yourselves to enjoy a day just for love.

Prague, revisited.

This is where I'm going.

Let's just take a minute to revisit the glory of Prague, shall we?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I can't believe I was just there last summer.

and I'm going back.

and I will learn Czech?!

loveit.

 

Hey, I'm a Sister...

And this is how it went:

scream

w     a     i     t

 

cry

 read

 

breathe

Yes, ladies and gentlemen.  I will be inviting people to come unto Christ.  In the Czech Republic.  Speaking Czech.

I report June 23rd, 2010. 

The world's bitterest love story.

A couple weeks ago I volunteered to accompany my sister's Special Ed class on a field trip. This is an experience I had, as I wrote it down a few days later.

You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll wish you had been there.






1.30.2010

I have little idea of what to expect. I can’t even remember what time I am supposed to show up—did she mean they should leave for the field trip at 8:30 or I should come at 8:30 in order to observe the class before the field trip? I told her that I would come early—was 8:30 early? On time?

Now early in any sense of the word seems regrettable. I pull at the skin under my eyes, trying to make them open a bit wider. An attempt to erase traces of night shift from my face, from my memory, from existence: futile.

I run into an old friend and try to look chipper. I sign my name, receive directions to Mrs. Carr’s room and act like I know my way around the school. I’ve only been here once before. Chaperoning Michelle’s homecoming dance. And one other time, bringing Danielle’s friend her phone charger, but I was in and out in a matter of seconds. Hardly even counts.

Luckily the walls are marked with signs: Rooms 100 – 110. I follow arrow clues and suspenseful numbers all the way to one-oh-seven: Mrs. Carr’s.

We meet. She looks nothing like I thought she might—very small. And kind of pretty. I remember how she told me that she undertook Special Education for the money. Who does Special Education for the money? We shake. We take turns mentioning how much Michelle talks about the other, how nice it is to finally meet after our conversation on the phone, how excited we each are for field tripping. She relieves me of my bag, tucks it away in a closet behind her desk, bids me follow her to the student in gym class. Gym class. Now I’m taken up by a wind of suggestions and following orders. Down the hallway again and we run into a few stragglers. A hefty smiley blonde, Kirsten, herding two students towards a ramp that ascends into a land of sweaty bodies and physical exertion. One of them hides her eyes from me, turning her entire body away, and clings to a small red cooler as though it were breathing. More introductions, more shaking and Mrs. Carr goes back the way we came. Paige is the one holding the cooler so tightly against her chest. Takes ice to the nurse on B days. Instead of looking at me, she hugs me. Apparently they’re working on that one.

I’m Ashley. Typical courtesies. Yes, I’m Michelle’s sister.

That’s
my name
too. 

An unnoticed, cramped voice from below sounds high wonderment through its owner’s nose. She’s sitting. In the hall way? In a wheel chair. Pinched features on a wide, freckled face look nearly worried (always nearly worried, I discover as the day wears on, as though longing for something slightly difficult to remember) as she peers at me through thick-rimmed black frames. Brown moppy hair and a lumpy sweat suit. She seems a soft heap of disarray. And sincerity.

Really?

Yes.
That means
we’re
friends.

How do you
spell it?

A-S-H-L-E-Y.

Oh.
Mine is spelled
A-S-H
L-A-Y.

Oh. That’s a good way to spell it. We’re almost the same. Seeing her awakens me slightly. I can’t help but converse with greater enthusiasm as we up the inclination. To my surprise, she takes the ramp on her own, wheeling herself with strength that her pillowy looks deny.
 
Look how strong you are! Maybe I could do that. Maybe.

She used to pull herself up it with her feet. Kristen. But she broke her leg and had to start using her arms instead. It was pretty incredible how fast she’d go. I watch and try to imagine her legs long enough to yabba-dabba-doo herself to the top.

Did you know
I
used to
live in
Oregon?

I didn’t. How long ago did you move here?

I think
maybe
about
six months ago.

On flat ground again. Nothing fazes her. We enter a small weight room on our left. Leaving explicit instructions for Ashlay to do her arm workout, Kirsten and Paige move on to the gym. She knows what to do, Kirsten insists, catching eyebrows I didn’t even have time to raise on her way out.

I wait for Ashlay to do something, unsure. She wheels close to the bench press equipment I lean against and picks up an elastic band at its base. This she takes to another machine, where she grabs the two handles and flings the middle around a vertical bar. Barely catches it. I finish pulling it on for her.
She goes to work when the chair’s brakes are set, pulling the handles toward her.
No wonder you’re so strong. Do you do this a lot?

Yeah.

The pulls are unpredictable. For the first few movements her right and left arms are coordinated. Then they begin to alternate. Then a small pause. Now together again.

Did you know
I have
a boyfriend?

Really!

But he’s
in Portland.

Portland?

Yeah. I
used to live
there.

Ohh. How long have you been dating him?

Since kindergarten.

That’s a long time!

Yeah.
He just asked me
one day if
I wanted
to be his girlfriend and
I said yes.

Ahh. Have you talked to him since you moved?

My mom’s
cell phone.

You talked to him on your mom’s cell phone?

I just
tried to
call
but he didn’t answer so
I just
left a message.

What did you say in the message?

I said
hi it’s your
girlfriend.
Bye.

A short pause.

I
love him.

Her hands drop to her lap, mid-pull.
You do!

But I didn’t
get to
tell him that
before
I left.

And the burden drops her chin to her chest.
Ohh no. I look at her, slumped over. The worried look has deepened above and around her eyes. It seems so real to her.

Yeah.

Another short pause. She resumes pulling again.

I
hope he hasn’t broken
up with me.

And here I have no more words because I am too busy drawing my eyebrows together and up. Even mere acknowledgments fail me.

I
will be so sad
if he has.

Probably he would tell you if he wanted to.

Yeah.
I will be
sad
if he has.

Now bittersweet tragedy makes me smile slightly.
Well, since he hasn’t said anything to you about it, that probably means he hasn’t.

Yeah.

She stops pulling on the elastic again.
How many of these arm exercises do you do?

Uhh
three sets.

I couldn’t tell where sets ended in her sporadic work. How many have you done already?

One.

Adjusting her grip with renewed determination, she is at it again.
Does it burn?

No.

After finishing her three sets, she unlocks her brakes and wheels herself a hamstring machine while I send the elastic home. For a moment I worry. The machine she chooses registers and I worry that I will have to lift her 20 year-old body out of her chair alone. I worry that I’ll drop her, that I won’t be strong enough. I worry that perhaps she’s doing something she shouldn’t be—hamstrings are definitely not part of the arms.

My mouth opens to voice as another class assistant walks over, adjusts the machine to its lightest setting, and leaves again. Ashlay, instead of looking to me for heavy lifting, positions herself behind the opposable extension and starts lifting it upward and back down again, with two hands. In that same, erratic pattern. Relieved, I straddle the bench opposite her and watch.

As she uses her arms, kids from another class—an average class—begin to file into the weight room next to ours and she watches them through the glass that walls between.

I like boys with
muscles.

The words bubble from her lips, a giggled confession.
My face curls in spite of itself. Is that why you like Toby? Does he have big muscles?

I don’t know.

Beat.

But that’s why he likes me.