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

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.

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.

2009 and Me

An affair for the ages, I'd say. Here's how it went down:

January

the marriage of Chris & Corey. had a minor breakdown early on in the semester when I discovered that I had to drop all my beautiful writing classes and take 18 credits of stinkier ones, but ultimately decided that Special Education was still worth it. our wild rumpus of a year began with the first ever Dare Night.

February

was finally accepted in to the Special Education major--and felt great about it! Also, Brie made it in to the art program, which called for a double celebration.

March

studying, learning Romanian, reading Levinas, etc.

April

finals. goodbye to great roommates and the blue house. goodbyes to my family, who are growing used to this sort of thing now. embarked overseas to the mysterious land of Romania. settled in to my new, quirky apartment.

May

familiarized myself with Romania. made surprising friends in the Iasi branch through peculiar means. attended two Romanian baptisms. found myself in the dancu apartment: one part frustration, two parts laughter, three parts adorable. ran. a lot. saw my first European circus. took a weekend trip to the prettiest corner of Romania: Maramures. I've never seen so much beautiful greenery in all my life. here the men tip their hats at you as you walk by and stray chicken run across the road.

June

continued work with the kids. visited several monasteries near Iasi. made a mid-semester pilgrimage to Brasov with Trish and Rands. filled a week and a half with unbelievable raucousness and met some of the most interesting people.

July

turned 21 and celebrated by playing BS with shots of warm carbonated water. saw Harry Potter 6 in theaters. gave a talk in Romanian in church that went somewhat awry. [so humiliating!] organized and held a mini girl's camp as a part of my calling in the branch as YW activities coordinator.

August

said the hardest goodbye i may ever say. cried my guts out. traveled around a bit in Vienna, Prague, Munich, and Salzburg. landed on American soil. renewed my driver's license. took Michelle's senior pictures. flew to the Alaska State Fair to flip burgers and dip dogs at Dean's Corndog Corner for a few weeks.

September

moved in to the world's most adorable house. began school again; fell in love with my classes, fell in love with my professors, fell in love with my future in Special Education. started my new job at the Writing Center--man, i love that place. [check out the podcast.] adventured for a few days with my dear Courty who traveled all the way from Auburn to see me! roadtripped to Rupert for Brie's farewell.

October

fall happened. Tuffy moved in for a while. went home for Nigel's homecoming. decided to start work on my mission papers. had a weekly Sunday D.P. (dance party) in our living room in front of the open window. ran in to a bout of carbon monoxide poisoning and hung out in a hyperbalic chamber for a few days, yet still had time to save the galaxy (or at least a big, happening party) with my main man han solo as princess leia for Halloween. all in a day's work.

November

hosted a mini Christmas party early enough that I think we made Thanksgiving feel bad. we just couldn't wait! spent Thanksgiving reading the Hunger Games and chowing down with the fam in Salt Lake City.

December

ate my first protein burger at the new In-N-Out in Provo for the first time. perused a very eclectic, very awesome Beehive Bazaar, where we picked up some gifts for all our little sister missionaries out in the field. saw my visiting teacher perform in the musical Savior of the World, which took me back to the Holy Land for a couple of hours. finals. goodbyes again. packing again. had wisdom teeth removed and have probably never been more talkative or more of a crybaby. drove home. took this mission photo. Christmas festivities of all sorts--Chris and Corey even came. slept in past 8 on Christmas morning, which is unheard of, with positive feedback from the old Saint himself. rang in the new year at Merrits. Classic.

whew.

who even knows where I'll be in 2011?!

Writer's Bloq.

I’ve tried so many times to write this essay. I feel that it’s there in me, somewhere, but discovering this elusive nook of eloquent secrets is much more difficult that I anticipated. I haven’t quite pinpointed what it looks like, which makes it difficult to search for. But really, I mean, come on—it’s about me, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I be the ultimate authority on myself, the best one to put my own thoughts into words?

Sometimes I think that the most difficult thing about personal writing is that I’ve read too much of others’ ideas. My mind has created a composite of everything I’ve ever known as a typeface for how my own story should look; because it has to have closure and it has to have an ‘aha!’ moment of startling realization and the characters must be developed and whoever writes it must have a complete and thorough understanding of her story and all the morals behind it, which she then applies in her own life and—presto!—she is the perfect person.

But my story is not perfect and God knows I’m not either. It feels impossible to pare down characters that I really know into short story figures and my ‘aha!’ didn’t knock the wind out of me with the kind of abruptness that seems appropriate for normal climaxes. I’m not sure how the story ends or even exactly where it begins. The only thing I’m sure of is that what I think it should be and what it is don’t seem to align so well.

I wonder.

I wonder how I would go about writing it if I had never read another’s story.

I guess I would just start typing.