I Do...Not.

I'm pretty sure I was as shocked as everyone else was when my boyfriend asked me to marry him over the Christmas break this past December...

Our entire relationship has been this crazy whirlwind of circumstance.
We met, and fell in love, and it really isn't as complicated as people think it all is.

I mean, he's from England and all, and he's living there at the moment...but, still, in the grand scheme of things, it isn't entirely complicated.

Loving him has never been difficult. We don't live our lives asking questions. We just know we're in love and want to be together.

Well, promptly after he proposed, and we were driving back to my home town to break the news to everyone else...I was a little skiddish...

The last thing I wanted to do was tell everyone. I'm not the kind of person who likes to be thrown into the limelight. I don't like being the center of attention for the wrong reasons. I've always felt as if marriage is the sort of thing people should share between each other, and not with the entire world.

It just all ends badly if everyone knows the details--check it, Kim Kardashian.

So, when Richard finally convinced me to wear the ring home...I knew what was going to come.

Sure enough, everyone was up in my grill about it, particularly my mother.

I mean, I was flattered that everyone wanted to talk to me and such...but I was suddenly bombarded with attention from people who on the regular never gave a shit about anything else I had managed to accomplish--suddenly, I was thrust into the spotlight because of something that just happened to me, not something I earned.

Of course I understand that the epitome of most women's' existences in my hometown is to be married and have kids--but that's never the first thing I've wanted for myself.
In fact, it wasn't even on the list.
In fact, I couldn't have been more freakin thrown off about it.

And now that it's come down to the point of seriously planning the wedding, I've never felt more out of control.
I guess it was initially because I hadn't an idea about where to start, but then it became all about the show and not about the actual event.

I know my mother means well (somewhere, and somehow), but she took it upon herself to speak for me in every instance she could, and open her mouth about it to anyone and everyone she encountered.
Mind you, nothing I have ever done in my entire life has reached the accomplishment of finding my future husband.
Of course I find it all ridiculous.

What had started as my idea of an intimate ceremony with, perhaps, 50 or 60 people has turned into an event with 93 people...simply because of such a thing as protocol...something I don't really believe in.

Lots of girls say they can't wait to plan their weddings. If you're anything like me, of course you can.
If you're anything like me, elopement in the Florida Keys sounds like heaven on earth.

My initial idea, of course, was to elope.
But then, I got a visual of the disappointment it would bring to everyone in my family and his who wouldn't be able to see us get married before their very eyes. I think this is the first time I've sacrificed myself in a platter...

It's been really, really painful.
And frankly, it's hard to hold my tongue about it all.

It's hard to feel as if you have control when you simply don't.

But, this is the way I see it...

Everyone has their last chance to say goodbye to single Ashlee and Richard, and to be able to see us say our vows--

And afterward, they can leave us the fuck alone. (:

My Love for the Penpal.

I am a rather unusual spirit--a lover of all things strange and extraordinary.
My weird ways and mannerisms have touched every aspect of my life, and has even reached the farthest edges of my person...
proving to encompass even my friendships.

I can remember as a girl, I would write letters to my cousin who lived in the next town. I used to do this only because that is what I saw my grandmother do. Phone calls were casual, somewhat vulgar inventions--they were used only for the most rapid of conversation, and the most unimportant. When my great-grandmother would sit down to write a letter, her rituals were always very well-placed and elegant.

She would prepare the paper and envelope to make sure they matched. Her favorite was a cream-colored linen parchment with a latticework trimmed at the top. She would always write her letters with a little grey pen, finely pointed, and her penmanship was a flourishing cursive.

"My Dearest Friend," She would begin.

"It has been such a long while since I've seen your children--won't you come down for the Christmas holidays?" She would implore.

"God keep you, darling, and I do hope to hear from you soon." She would conclude.

And at last, to finish, her beautiful and immaculate signature--underlined and swooshing.

In school, we were taught how to write letters. I always took it so much more seriously than I was led to, and it is all because of that instance of watching my great grandmother composing her verses. My letters became longer and more frequent, so much so that my cousin tired of them and sent me crying with the capitalized valediction in a clustered print: STOP SENDING SO MANY.

I stopped writing to anyone in the outside world, and saved my verses for me and my imaginary intimates instead...

It started to spark again as a longing for adventure.
I had always looked for friends in different places, places no one else seemed to look.

I like to keep a little color in my life, and with the advent of Facebook and Etsy, I was introduced to a new and exciting world of international friendships.

I was thrilled that, with every few people I met from different places within the states and around the world, some were indeed thrilled to write to me.

Among my most loyal penpals have been Rachel of Missouri, Shikha of Mumbai, India, and the man who would become my fiance, Richard of Middlesbrough, England.

I told Richard I could never truly love him unless he wrote me letters. I was using this as a threat of course, but it was also to test his willingness to take up a new hobby. I had never encountered a boyfriend who lived somewhat a distance away to ever comply to this unusual desire--the first or second letter were filled with incredibly boring and honestly plain descriptions of the weather and scenery around them. I like a little poetry in my verses, a little something tangible...I found myself constantly disappointed...

Richard stepped out to the challenge and delivered letter after letter of brilliance and honesty-- refreshing little questions and stories and all sorts of colorful morsels littered the page.

I was equally delighted when his mother and grandmother took up writing to me as well. They, too, proved to be as apt as he in writing darling tokens and humorous accounts of their daily lives--all of it, in turn, I was eager to read.

There is perhaps no one with whom you can share more intimate details of your life.

The penpal is a loyal, unbiased person with whom you may share every situation that is occurring to you in the present. It is a friendship that demands no true sense of devotion outside of paper products. You are loyal to one another by means of the secrets you each keep to one another, and to the promise of a return.

I must say, one of my most favorite letters came from an author I had written to regarding her book. She told me she was 'truly revived by the eloquence' of my words. I couldn't bring myself to reply to that letter, because I thought I'd truly be wasting her good time.

My newest penpal, and perhaps the one I may be devoted to for quite some time, is a lovely personage. He is Tomas of Croatia--and thank heavens we can communicate in English, for he knows nothing of French and I certainly know nothing of Croatian!

I look forward to see what stories we can bounce between each other, and how grand of friends we can become through the power of words.

The Catholic Debate.

From the minute I was born, I had been unquestionably consecrated to a belief that I was completely ignorant of.
In time, I had become a well-oiled religious machine--capable of following, explaining, and defending the faith of my family, my neighbors, and my friends.

I only began to question my faith after having most of my formative adolescent years dedicated to an unwavering desire to be a Carmelite nun.

And, my one moment of real reckoning came when I attended a religious retreat designed for teenage Catholics. We spent all weekend praying, fasting, and partaking in friendly communal activities... (That is, when my peers weren't having sex in the woods or smoking dope in their cabins.)

One night, we had a question-and-answer group. Everyone gathered around to ask some older Catholics questions--these people were in their early twenties, really cool, well-dressed, attractive, and in college or had really great jobs.

The point of this was to be able to see how we'd be in the future if we kept going down a righteous path. We could ask them about their families, their daily lives, their opinions on anything and everything--and always, their answers had something attributed to being Catholic.

Well, I had a friend in my class at the time who found herself at the retreat because if you attended our school it was mandatory to attend the function. However, it was common knowledge that she was a lesbian. She was also notoriously poignant about the way she was.
So it was no surprise when she started asking this very crisp-looking twenty-something Catholic woman why it was so wrong to be gay.

"Well," said the Catholic girl, "Let's be honest here...the parts just don't fit..."
"But I'm human, and I have human feelings. I'm the only being that can feel the way I feel. I'm not gay because I chose to be, I'm gay because I have the capability to recognize what I feel and for whom I feel it."
"Yes, well..." the Catholic girl sneered. "God gave you those feelings to test you. You're not supposed to act on them."
"What if I don't believe in god?"

There was a dead silence in the entire room.

I stared at her. A sick, weird feeling rose up in me...it wasn't because I was disgusted, as the rest of the people around me appeared to be, it's because in my heart I knew I believed her.

In my heart, I had always known that there were things I never agreed with about the religion in which I was brought up. Everyone told me this was simply the way it was, and that to not accept it would mean I was completely out of my mind. Upon recognizing that I wasn't docile in my mind, I realized I simply couldn't be a nun. Though I hungered to be devout, and to dedicate myself fully to something greater than myself, I knew this wouldn't be my path.

My mental rebellion made it uncomfortable to be around other people who I knew would disagree if I told them how I really felt. I began to spend my time with people who were more open-minded, and who accepted me for whatever I did or didn't believe. I began to be truly happy with myself.

These experience also helped me to see with open eyes exactly what I didn't know about being Catholic.

Though I've never had any qualms about any religion, and I remain a firm believer in the phrase 'to each his own', I know all too well the pitfalls of being so involved in one thing that you forget there are people who don't share your belief systems or ideology.

I have never wanted to be the person who told you you were wrong for believing something I do not. Just because you are different from me, does not mean that we cannot be friends.

People, for instance, who like to judge the Islamic faith most likely know absolutely nothing about it--as an educated lapsed Catholic, I can draw several parallels between Islam and Catholicism. They are not entirely different religions, but are actually more similar than one may imagine.

As an adult, I have become comfortable with who I am and what I believe. I no longer feel this guilt I often felt in childhood, the emotionless agreement to something that I had no control over. I regard myself as a thoughtful, generally good, non-religious person.

I have read and studied the Bible. I have had lessons in Latin. I have learned the particular religious meaning behind the vestments of the priest. I have examined the religious and lay callings. I know each in turn, and I respect each in turn. I enjoy the knowledge they've given me. But, in my quest to understand, I have also learned so much from opening my mind to other beliefs.
I have read on the gurus of Hinduism and Buddhism, I have been welcomed to prayer at Ramadan, and I've appreciated it all in turns.

So, why am I so annoyed at this particular incident that happened a couple of days ago?

My parents regularly receive bulletins from their diocese, and like any other bulletin it usually just follows up on the events the parish is putting on and what's generally been happening recently. This was a letter I found myself reading, and it was a little different.

This letter was from the priest who oversees the parish where my parents attend church. It was a polite, well-written letter--but the content completely dumbfounded me.
In the letter, Fr. So-and-so explained he regretted having to do so, but he was writing the letter as a matter of urgency because there were maintenance issues the church needed to take care of. The collection money, he went on, has been down for some time.
To conclude, he aggressively mentioned that the parish specifically needed $50,000 and enclosed is an envelope for donations because the air conditioner needs to be changed and it needs immediate attention.

...I really haven't enough words to explain my complete annoyance.

Perhaps I'm an entirely selfish person, but $50,000 can go a long way for anyone--I have stepped foot in this church myself: it is ornate, well-maintained, and--dare I say--it needs very little maintenance outside of the minimal?

I have been to the Vatican myself, and I know the Catholic church itself is perhaps the wealthiest religious organization in the world as far as its monetary value. I know that the pay priests receive is dictated by their bishop, and their bishop answers to Rome...

But, I find myself wondering, why the Dalai Lama never asks his followers for a single physical thing...he only asks for their understanding, appreciation, and acceptance of each other as human beings?

Why must the wealthiest religious organization on earth ask for hard-working, perhaps even struggling people's money in a time like this?

We live in a beautiful world, but there are children starving and being murdered in it. In light of this idea, why does a priest not ask his congregation to be a little uncomfortable in the event of no air-conditioning, and instead offer donated money not to his own cause--but to the cause of those children and people whose lives are forever uncomfortable?

But hey, I'm only an ignorant agnostic these days.
One who spends her free time tipping local businesses, paying her bills, and attending school on a very limited income--who also one day looks forward to taking a parentless child, and giving them a home.

But, I'm only an agnostic...
So, I guess it doesn't count?

An Analysis Poetry, and of the Poet

A class I find myself taking this semester has opened my eyes to a different perspective of the writer--particularly, I suppose, because it is a writing class.

However, we now find ourselves venturing into the often strange and foreboding world of poetry. This is a topic that appears to frighten my fellow classmates. Poetry is confusing to most of them, and it is easy enough to understand why.

I have been a poet for as long as I can remember. I began writing poetry at the age of ten, though I only saw it as sentences describing my moods. I didn't know the intricate details of what it took to create a poem, nor did I care.

See, one of the keys to being an effective poet, in my opinion, is the flow.

Poetry is simply one of those things that cannot be forced. Unlike prose, the poet is inspired by the voice inside telling the story--often from a very stream-of-consciousness point of view. There is often a beat involved, there is often a sort of rhythm ebbing from some unnamed place inside.

The freedom of poetry is something that also separately identifies it from prose.

I was somewhat disturbed by my professor's comments concerning some of my own poetry. Though he called it "rendering", "compelling", and even "psychologically complex"--things that every poet wants to hear--he also mentioned that my imagery was ambiguous, and that at points I didn't give a "clear" visual of what I was trying to get across...

I asked him if he ever wrote poetry.
He said no.

Aha. There is the reason.

See, it is different being a reader of poetry, than being a writer of poetry.

When I visualize the differences in prose and poetry, I clearly see the different things I am wanting to receive from both. I see and respect their differences, and I look to identify their separate qualities.

The way I see it is this: When prose steps forward, poetry steps back.

Prose is the loud guest in the room, the individual that is mingling and introducing themselves. Poetry is the quiet, aloof figure in the corner on a settee--watching the room with a very peculiar glimmer in their eye.

The beauty of poetry is the room the author gives us in order to draw our own conclusions about what it might mean. In my understanding, I have never read any poet--Keats or Eliot or anyone in between--that wanted someone to read their work once and never pick it up again. As a poet, my job is to have you sit and stay a while. I want you to meditate, mull over, and analyze what the voice on the paper has to say.

As a poet, I want you to re-read. I invite you to re-read, I beg you to! I want you to be confused at first. I want you to think--what the fuck?
I want that! Because that means that you want to figure it all out. That means you're confused, and because you're confused it means you're wondering.

Any great poet probably smiled when someone came up to them and said "I have absolutely no idea what you meant by that..."

I bet you want to say it to Plath or Dickinson right now, as a matter of fact.

Prose hands us the meaning on a platter, offers it to us with willingness to understand.
Poetry sits and waits to be understood.

What I Is, and What I Is Not.

I am someone who tries to be honest.
I am not someone who is going to tell you what you want to hear.

I am going to be a friend to you.
I am not going to hang on your every breath or every deed--that isn't my jurisdiction.

I am sympathetic.
I am not going to listen to all of your problems, and take pity on your inability to take action.

I am independent.
I am not going to refuse help from you, if you offer it to me.

I am someone who likes to be touched.
I am not someone who thinks a randomer making a pass at my ass is appropriate.

I am a person who likes to be talked to.
I am not someone who will give you a snarky look if you say something wildly inappropriate.

I am a spiritual person.
I am not someone who uses my religion, or system of beliefs as an excuse to alienate people I don't understand.

I am going to try to understand you.
I am not going to judge you because you're different than I am.