So I had this hope that Armenia would feel like home. It does not! But one place here, the "warm hearth" group home, does feel like home. This rush of emotion flooded through my body as I danced with those beautiful adults the other day and I felt like I was right where I was supposed to be. Those feelings are few and when they strike, that spinning, and you fall into the notion that there is hope and life has a purpose. my purpose while here was to grow into me and do something meaningful. Every second spent at that home, I am filling my bag, strong, sturdy, open for more, just keep piling the hoppe and love!
I am humming bird happy!
love to everyone! keep hope in your heart and remember, every chance you can smile at a lonely soul!
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Yes, my mothers family is Armenian! simply, dark hair, dark eyes, this is true! but looking closely at the women in my family; they live to take care of everyone they can. yes, my grandmother took care of her family, but she had a full time job and not becase my grandfather could not provide for his family. There is this strength that Armenian women posses, but at the same time they are weak. I see this everytime I look at my family. We would all do anything for anyone; yet there is great denile.
The forum lastnight about the relationships between men and women in Armenia; it's hard to describe but it feels internal, as though these people were wired this way. I only say this based on my own family evidance, and we do not "act" or "show" our Armenian side because none of my relatives were raised Armenian. they all blended with the typical American family. We are half Armenian and half Irish.
It's interesting to think about what it meant o be an Armenian Woman or man. There are certain roles each sex plays, and for some reason it is excpted. Granted the idea of adultery is worldwide, but in many countries it is either not spoken of or not excepted. The very thought of my husband sleeping around, gives me the heaby jeebies. Not, now, not ever would that be ok with me. I will never understand why these women except it and sometimes embrace this idea.
I work with smart, beautiful, strong women! Its hard to think, that they are only working til they get married or have children. The service they are iving these children, only a kind, caring, motherly figure could fullfil the needs of these children.
Even though, I feel as though I am not doing alot at work; the kids make it rewarding. Varhan running backwards and forwards, ending up in my arms, or watching davit paint with his intensity, is beautiful. It's sad they these kids will never be able to live outside these walls, even at home. for most of them, their families do not know how to handle them and there is a constant battle. back home childen with autism are treated with respect and have the opportunity to have the best life possible. I cannot wait for the rest of the world to be on the same page; but I won't hold my breath.
Love for now!
Keep strong women! you need to speak out and speak loud!
The forum lastnight about the relationships between men and women in Armenia; it's hard to describe but it feels internal, as though these people were wired this way. I only say this based on my own family evidance, and we do not "act" or "show" our Armenian side because none of my relatives were raised Armenian. they all blended with the typical American family. We are half Armenian and half Irish.
It's interesting to think about what it meant o be an Armenian Woman or man. There are certain roles each sex plays, and for some reason it is excpted. Granted the idea of adultery is worldwide, but in many countries it is either not spoken of or not excepted. The very thought of my husband sleeping around, gives me the heaby jeebies. Not, now, not ever would that be ok with me. I will never understand why these women except it and sometimes embrace this idea.
I work with smart, beautiful, strong women! Its hard to think, that they are only working til they get married or have children. The service they are iving these children, only a kind, caring, motherly figure could fullfil the needs of these children.
Even though, I feel as though I am not doing alot at work; the kids make it rewarding. Varhan running backwards and forwards, ending up in my arms, or watching davit paint with his intensity, is beautiful. It's sad they these kids will never be able to live outside these walls, even at home. for most of them, their families do not know how to handle them and there is a constant battle. back home childen with autism are treated with respect and have the opportunity to have the best life possible. I cannot wait for the rest of the world to be on the same page; but I won't hold my breath.
Love for now!
Keep strong women! you need to speak out and speak loud!
Monday, September 27, 2010
a work in progress
I started writing the story of my great Aunt Mary many months ago; then after Grammy passed I stopped writing, stopped taking picture because I was working on a photo book about her. I decided a few days ago to write about those two women and myself. so my update is part of the story; just a very rough beggining :~)
This all began with a woman who fled from the elk, like so many others. She landed in Up State New York with a husband and three beautiful daughters. Her family fallowed from the homeland and settled down nearby. Displaced because horns rammed through the hearts of these innocent people, the Vosganyan family found a new home; a different way of living. In tongue this mother spoke to her daughters, a language so distant from what the average New Yorker. As children, Mary, Margaret and Louise heard pieces of their family's history strewn together in a mess of anger, pain and shame. There was some far off land, where everyone had their eyes, giant bulge of a nose and hair as dark as the black sea, but they knew very little about it. The existence of their ancestors were said to have been from France, or Canada or possibly Armenia, but who knew right? If you were to stare at the face of Margaret, or gaze into Mary’s eyes, pieces of a puzzle become clear. And once those three sisters aged, the puzzle was complete with their wrinkled hands that spoke not only of their strife, but of the history they were forced to keep hidden for years and years, until the next generation started to question.
There are many unanswered questions in one’s life; but sometimes the question is the answer. To search for the question is as important as finding the answer. I came to Armenia with the knowledge that it was a quarter of my heritage. I so badly wanted to know this small part of me, maybe to feel complete or just to have a greater understanding of the brave women who raised me. I owe a great deal of my love to Margaret and Mary. Louise was as beautiful, but I knew her less. With Mary remaining, our closeness grows; not only because we share is the burden of watching those around us struggle, with little power to change what is happening. But, even more so to the fact that I am searching for the history of our family; with her being the last tie to our Armenian roots. My family is weaved into a blanket, our stories and history as the Vosganyan women! the strength to battle cancer, live through abuse, survive divorce, overcome learning struggles, handle depression and anxiety, with more under our roof, we're strong, brave, sometimes so weak we keep the truth hidden, or so strong we want to tell anyone we think can change a negative situation when we hold little power in our hands. We are one!
There are fourteen women I speak of, three generations with a golden thread, connecting and illuminating the paths we fallow. Now with my questions still unknown and my answers even farther from becoming clear, I wander the streets of Yerevan staring into those kind, soulful eyes that resemble the two angels’ of my light. The great woman who led my heart from the future to the past has now become part of my past. I always knew that Grammy, also known as Margaret would not have accepted my decision to travel back to the homeland, having her gone I felt would have eased my thoughts. Now, she is more than ever alive, soaring around me, standing right behind me, her wrinkled aged hands, holding onto my back. I feel the air around me pick up my feet, with wings I am almost flying with her. The final physically present day spent with her, is captured in my photographic collection. Whirling around in my head, a movie, almost unreal, it still feels like a dream.
The slow down spiral, whirled up as Margaret rose from her slumber. Eager to eat, with her brittle bones she moseyed to the kitchen. That day a light was cast on the back porch where everyone ate their breakfast, as if to give my Grammy one more chance. There were two positive weeks before the shivers, night sweats that drenched through her white and blue rosy sheets reoccurred. Within twenty four hours she drifted off for her final slumber.
When word spread that she was back in the lifeless hospital bed that carried many others of to sleep, without question picked up my cousin Christine at Boston University and jumped on the mass pike. This nauseous ache rushed through my veins, unable to make any kind of a decision, I knew I wanted to say goodbye. Almost all her 8 children and 8 grandchildren knelt by her bed. We gently kissed her wrinkled forehead, whispering our "i love you's" with one last grip of her hand. For me and my cousin Christine, she awoke with recognition, her heart smiled wide and she chuckled. The fact she knew we were there was a gift for me. I was given that chance to say goodbye. It has been three months since her passing. I kept hoping that I would feel her pressence, as I have with so many other’s whom has entered the spiritual world, but it had yet to occur. Empty, confused, I needed reassurance that the path I fallowed would heal my torn up, cracked, wrinkled feet. I knew her guidance would end each of my footsteps on soft, silky grass.
Today on September 27, 2010 I was sitting in Republic square, in Yerevan Armenia, I could feel Grammy's hand grace my shoulder, closing my eyes, her figure was behind me. I was a little girl sitting at the giant wooden table, covered with the blue and white cotton blanket. Grammy was in the kitchen, her hands flew around like birds. I could smell the chocolate and sweet surgery sensation of the golden brownies rising in the oven. The world made sense in the days of sugary goodness, outstretched arms that could hug anyone, the wrinkled sheets I danced up and down on, until nick at night when I huddled on the floor by my grandfather's T.V. Rushed back in time; I saw the past unfold as if it were the future. I was not scared because I had already been whiteness. Her vision eased my doubt; I saw her wisdom written in the clouds. I realized that when she passed I had been sick and could not shed those needed tears; and when I stare at those dancing clouds, the simple word “cry” is always written. She is forcing me to feel my way through this journey by starting with the tear drops. As they stream my face, her vision appears my eyes close and she dries my sunken eyes. My pale skin is hidden in those ancient hands. There has always been an unspoken bond between me, my grandmother and great ant Mary. I could feel that bond reborn as I sat with my feet dipped in the fountain. My chilled toes were all of a sudden baked by the sun. Only my grandmother could reveal my sadness and heal my cold, tired heart. I ached for her loving arms to hug me once more and wrap me in her reassurance. At that moment I knew everything would be ok. In spirit she is amongst me on my journey, we travel together. When I return home my journey will only continue and Mary will tread the road with me until her voice tires and the whisper of history is a faded image of ancestors unknown by name.
Mary is a firecracker. She has aged with the suffering of burying almost her entire family; yet each day she rises with the sun and dances with the moon. Until age 90 she worked at her family store. Taking care of those around her was the need she filled; knowing that her remaining son was incapable. The strength she embodies, is a gift few have; and a lesson she teaches everyday to those who listen and actually see. Quite easy is it, to take for granted our elders and the wisdom they have to share.
This all began with a woman who fled from the elk, like so many others. She landed in Up State New York with a husband and three beautiful daughters. Her family fallowed from the homeland and settled down nearby. Displaced because horns rammed through the hearts of these innocent people, the Vosganyan family found a new home; a different way of living. In tongue this mother spoke to her daughters, a language so distant from what the average New Yorker. As children, Mary, Margaret and Louise heard pieces of their family's history strewn together in a mess of anger, pain and shame. There was some far off land, where everyone had their eyes, giant bulge of a nose and hair as dark as the black sea, but they knew very little about it. The existence of their ancestors were said to have been from France, or Canada or possibly Armenia, but who knew right? If you were to stare at the face of Margaret, or gaze into Mary’s eyes, pieces of a puzzle become clear. And once those three sisters aged, the puzzle was complete with their wrinkled hands that spoke not only of their strife, but of the history they were forced to keep hidden for years and years, until the next generation started to question.
There are many unanswered questions in one’s life; but sometimes the question is the answer. To search for the question is as important as finding the answer. I came to Armenia with the knowledge that it was a quarter of my heritage. I so badly wanted to know this small part of me, maybe to feel complete or just to have a greater understanding of the brave women who raised me. I owe a great deal of my love to Margaret and Mary. Louise was as beautiful, but I knew her less. With Mary remaining, our closeness grows; not only because we share is the burden of watching those around us struggle, with little power to change what is happening. But, even more so to the fact that I am searching for the history of our family; with her being the last tie to our Armenian roots. My family is weaved into a blanket, our stories and history as the Vosganyan women! the strength to battle cancer, live through abuse, survive divorce, overcome learning struggles, handle depression and anxiety, with more under our roof, we're strong, brave, sometimes so weak we keep the truth hidden, or so strong we want to tell anyone we think can change a negative situation when we hold little power in our hands. We are one!
There are fourteen women I speak of, three generations with a golden thread, connecting and illuminating the paths we fallow. Now with my questions still unknown and my answers even farther from becoming clear, I wander the streets of Yerevan staring into those kind, soulful eyes that resemble the two angels’ of my light. The great woman who led my heart from the future to the past has now become part of my past. I always knew that Grammy, also known as Margaret would not have accepted my decision to travel back to the homeland, having her gone I felt would have eased my thoughts. Now, she is more than ever alive, soaring around me, standing right behind me, her wrinkled aged hands, holding onto my back. I feel the air around me pick up my feet, with wings I am almost flying with her. The final physically present day spent with her, is captured in my photographic collection. Whirling around in my head, a movie, almost unreal, it still feels like a dream.
The slow down spiral, whirled up as Margaret rose from her slumber. Eager to eat, with her brittle bones she moseyed to the kitchen. That day a light was cast on the back porch where everyone ate their breakfast, as if to give my Grammy one more chance. There were two positive weeks before the shivers, night sweats that drenched through her white and blue rosy sheets reoccurred. Within twenty four hours she drifted off for her final slumber.
When word spread that she was back in the lifeless hospital bed that carried many others of to sleep, without question picked up my cousin Christine at Boston University and jumped on the mass pike. This nauseous ache rushed through my veins, unable to make any kind of a decision, I knew I wanted to say goodbye. Almost all her 8 children and 8 grandchildren knelt by her bed. We gently kissed her wrinkled forehead, whispering our "i love you's" with one last grip of her hand. For me and my cousin Christine, she awoke with recognition, her heart smiled wide and she chuckled. The fact she knew we were there was a gift for me. I was given that chance to say goodbye. It has been three months since her passing. I kept hoping that I would feel her pressence, as I have with so many other’s whom has entered the spiritual world, but it had yet to occur. Empty, confused, I needed reassurance that the path I fallowed would heal my torn up, cracked, wrinkled feet. I knew her guidance would end each of my footsteps on soft, silky grass.
Today on September 27, 2010 I was sitting in Republic square, in Yerevan Armenia, I could feel Grammy's hand grace my shoulder, closing my eyes, her figure was behind me. I was a little girl sitting at the giant wooden table, covered with the blue and white cotton blanket. Grammy was in the kitchen, her hands flew around like birds. I could smell the chocolate and sweet surgery sensation of the golden brownies rising in the oven. The world made sense in the days of sugary goodness, outstretched arms that could hug anyone, the wrinkled sheets I danced up and down on, until nick at night when I huddled on the floor by my grandfather's T.V. Rushed back in time; I saw the past unfold as if it were the future. I was not scared because I had already been whiteness. Her vision eased my doubt; I saw her wisdom written in the clouds. I realized that when she passed I had been sick and could not shed those needed tears; and when I stare at those dancing clouds, the simple word “cry” is always written. She is forcing me to feel my way through this journey by starting with the tear drops. As they stream my face, her vision appears my eyes close and she dries my sunken eyes. My pale skin is hidden in those ancient hands. There has always been an unspoken bond between me, my grandmother and great ant Mary. I could feel that bond reborn as I sat with my feet dipped in the fountain. My chilled toes were all of a sudden baked by the sun. Only my grandmother could reveal my sadness and heal my cold, tired heart. I ached for her loving arms to hug me once more and wrap me in her reassurance. At that moment I knew everything would be ok. In spirit she is amongst me on my journey, we travel together. When I return home my journey will only continue and Mary will tread the road with me until her voice tires and the whisper of history is a faded image of ancestors unknown by name.
Mary is a firecracker. She has aged with the suffering of burying almost her entire family; yet each day she rises with the sun and dances with the moon. Until age 90 she worked at her family store. Taking care of those around her was the need she filled; knowing that her remaining son was incapable. The strength she embodies, is a gift few have; and a lesson she teaches everyday to those who listen and actually see. Quite easy is it, to take for granted our elders and the wisdom they have to share.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
the light! fallow it
As we drove past the mountains; mother opened her gate. the light guided our my eyes to the heavenly halo that rang through the sky. unaure of what today would bring, i soon gained that light within me. It has been a while since I took actual composed images. not since before grammy passed. she was my last project, almost finished. at some point I will figure out how to finish it, but for now, my work moves on, as do I, and life!
I met an elder woman today with the wisdom of a king, the heart and soul of an angel and the strength of a worrior! she let me capture she essense in almost every picture I took and that was breath taking for me. I made me realize that maybe, one I get my expressive therapy degree< I might be able to use it here, with the children and continue documenting these beautiful people. who knows what life will bring! its an adventure!
but today I fallowed the light...as John goodman taught us to do in junior portfolio! thanks John!
I met an elder woman today with the wisdom of a king, the heart and soul of an angel and the strength of a worrior! she let me capture she essense in almost every picture I took and that was breath taking for me. I made me realize that maybe, one I get my expressive therapy degree< I might be able to use it here, with the children and continue documenting these beautiful people. who knows what life will bring! its an adventure!
but today I fallowed the light...as John goodman taught us to do in junior portfolio! thanks John!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Barev,
Today I walked for 3 hours trying to reach the office of armenia corp...i ended up taking a cab because who knew it would take so long lol. I captured the most beautiful elder man through my camera lens and saw markets, stores, people dressed in 80's clothes just like back home. It was an adventure. being sick was not supposed t be part of it but oh well, that happens. on my way home from the office I asked a young man for directions and him and his friends helped me get to the area where i am staying. he litterally got on the bus with me and paid my way. then after that I was still lost; I stopped to ask a cab driver for rirections and he spoke English. His story was heart breaking though, he has three degrees. 1. engineering, 2. language..he speaks 7 or 8 and 3. he was a teacher at university teaching english. he told me when the soviets left..he was out of work and is now a cab driver. I could see the pain in his eyes when he told me his story. so far this trip is teaching me to trust more. to still be careful, but trust my host family, the people I will be working for, and asking for directions even though we speak different languages; good people do exist!
for a while now I have been writing a story on my great Aunt Mary and today I decided to write one with my grammy; about how this all came about. you know, me here, her family in the states. it is not an uncommon story I was told, that many people who left armenia during the genocide lost their pride or felt shame and it was passed down through their children. When you walk the streets of armenia you can see the pride in their faces. a pride that has been lost in so many, and needs to be regained!
LOVE from Ashley!
Today I walked for 3 hours trying to reach the office of armenia corp...i ended up taking a cab because who knew it would take so long lol. I captured the most beautiful elder man through my camera lens and saw markets, stores, people dressed in 80's clothes just like back home. It was an adventure. being sick was not supposed t be part of it but oh well, that happens. on my way home from the office I asked a young man for directions and him and his friends helped me get to the area where i am staying. he litterally got on the bus with me and paid my way. then after that I was still lost; I stopped to ask a cab driver for rirections and he spoke English. His story was heart breaking though, he has three degrees. 1. engineering, 2. language..he speaks 7 or 8 and 3. he was a teacher at university teaching english. he told me when the soviets left..he was out of work and is now a cab driver. I could see the pain in his eyes when he told me his story. so far this trip is teaching me to trust more. to still be careful, but trust my host family, the people I will be working for, and asking for directions even though we speak different languages; good people do exist!
for a while now I have been writing a story on my great Aunt Mary and today I decided to write one with my grammy; about how this all came about. you know, me here, her family in the states. it is not an uncommon story I was told, that many people who left armenia during the genocide lost their pride or felt shame and it was passed down through their children. When you walk the streets of armenia you can see the pride in their faces. a pride that has been lost in so many, and needs to be regained!
LOVE from Ashley!
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
the journey begins
When I was on the plane, my head was longing for Grammy and my heart was filled with excitement. I felt like "I was on my way home." I wrote in my journal, " where two seas meet. I greet the sun. Hello glistening beauty. Today I am whole. Riding on the wings. Grammy carries to, our unknown homeland." As much as this is about volunteering, the experience is the whole, and I am part of what will happen. This experience will become part of me and in return I will be able to share more with those I love, and work with in the future.
Love for always, Ashley!
Love for always, Ashley!
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