Today. Despite the endless rain.
I
Am
Happy
Georgia on my Mind
April 20, 2011 by
I have lots on my mind today. Not just Georgia, although that song has been rolling through my head all morning. I love that song, don’t you? I’ve had the amazing opportunity to sing with a local jazz band a couple of times in the last few months and twice I’ve gotten to sing that song. There’s something about that song that just kind of takes you over when you’re singing it. It may be one of the greatest songs ever written and recorded.
I have other things on my mind, too. Sleep. I’d like to do that again and I think I’ll have the opportunity once Easter passes by. Maybe. I can at least hope, right?
The house. While I wasn’t sure I was ready for it to sell right away, I am officially over this business of trying to keep it clean. What a hassle! I miss my floor being dirty and beds going unmade. But the good news is that we’re having showings almost every day, so high traffic is a positive.
I’m thinking about schooling and summer vacation, kids and life. I’m wondering where our next house will be and I’m so thoroughly overwhelmed with trying to sell this one that I haven’t been looking for a new one.
I’m thinking about coffee with Peppermint Mocha Creamer (and yes, I currently have six bottles of it in my fridge. I refuse to run out of it). I’m thinking about rain and the dream I had about tornadoes last night that woke me up all feverish and nervous. I’m thinking about how my kids wake up frequently with similar dreams and I usually laugh at them for it, but dang! Those dreams are scary.
I’m thinking about missions and what kind of missions journey God would like to take our family on. I love this post by my uncle, an amazing missions minded and hearted man that I look up to. I’m thinking about when, how and if I’ll ever be able to take my children to Ukraine, which feels like a second home to me and something that I should share with them.
I’m thinking about how I need to run today but I don’t really want to, but really I should because I signed up to run a 5k in June. I’m thinking about how foolish I am to keep running when I don’t really enjoy it very much. I’m thinking about how I can possibly get an awesome, toned runner’s figure without actually running…
I’m thinking about how we need to write to our Compassion International sponsored child. Jonri is seven years old and lives in the Philipines and my kids faithfully pray for him. But I am admittedly not good at having them write to him. We are overdue for another letter.
I’m thinking about Easter and what that means. The drama our church is putting on is really amazing and I’ve learned more about the death and resurrection of Christ in the last two weeks of working on that than I ever have before.
I’m thinking about making another video, as soon as time presents itself for me to pull it off.
I’m thinking about washing my face and how much I love to do it. I got new face products the other day and it just made me happy. It’s the simple things…
What are you thinking about today?
Magic Monkey on the Wall
April 8, 2011 by
We have a naughty little Monkey in our midst. He’s mischevious and sneaky and you never really know where you’ll find him. See for yourself:
Sometimes this mischevious little monkey convinces the stuffed bear to join in on the antics and we find them together on the shelf.
Thus far, however, he hasn’t been able to convince Old Monkey (aka, Steve) to climb with him. Steve just doesn’t have it in him anymore. He’s a little over three years old. In Sock Monkey years that’s 104. He also has a bum arm and leg…
There are squeals of delight multiple times a day as we discover where New Monkey has settled himself. “I fink he must be awive!” they cry.
We’ve tried to catch Monkey in the act of swinging and climbing, but he’s just too clever. As you can see from some of the pictures above, we’ve almost caught him. We’ve seen him mid-swing more than once, but he always manages to freeze before we can get to him.
Yesterday they were determined to keep Monkey in their sights all day in the hopes that they would see him move. But wouldn’t you know, when they turned their backs for one second he managed to scamper up on top of the fridge!
Silly Monkey.
Back to Life…
March 30, 2011 by
Lee, my strong, handsome, builtlikeaGreekgod, handy man of a husband, spent the week building and installing a new kitchen counter for us. It looks awesome. He used granite tiles and did a fabulous job.
I was shocked, however, when I walked in the door yesterday to this:
And then the realtor called. She has a client who wants to see our house today at 1:00. Sing it with me, “Let the gooood times roll!”
Four hours later I had the bathrooms scrubbed, the countertops cleared and the floors vaccuumed. Unfortunately in the shuffle and frenzy of cleaning we managed to lose a part to the kitchen faucet and cannot reassemble it so Lee is buying another one today.
And I’m seriously questioning our decision to sell this house…
Sneak Peek
March 28, 2011 by
I’ve mentioned before that I’m working on a novel. In actuality I have been working on this book for a decade. I have started and stopped more times than I can count. I got 230 pages in the last time I worked on it, but it just didn’t feel right. I was getting close, but I wasn’t there yet.
In the last few weeks, as I’ve stepped back a bit and gathered my thoughts, something exciting happened:
My characters found their voices.
I felt it all beginning to bubble shortly after the holidays. Inspiration, confidence, desire and excitement. All of these formed and gelled and moved into a rhythm that allowed me to sit down and type and suddenly things fell into place. I’ve known these characters for a long time, but I haven’t truly discovered them.
This week, as I’ve stepped away from the computer, I’ve been inspired. How could you not be inspired by these views:
I still have a long way to go on this little book of mine and it will be slow going as my opportunities to write often appear in short bursts. But I feel like I’m finally on the right track (dare I say the “Write” track? *groan*). Here is a sneak peek at what I’ve been working on while I was away.
The setting: It’s June 22, 1941. The Soviet Union was just surprise attacked by the Germans. Each of my characters is loosely based on a true story as I am compiling the stories I heard when I spent a month in Ukraine interviewing veterans. This character, Luda, has elements of truth mixed with elements of imagination.
“Luda!”
I stood in my small bedroom and glanced into my mother’s hand mirror. It was the only piece of her I had left. My father had gotten rid of everything else when she died. I don’t remember anything about her. I don’t know what she looked like, or how she smelled. I don’t know if her laugh sounded like a thousand bells or a babbling brook. I have imagined her so many times. I have no photographs to create her image. There are no grandparents to tell me stories. So I’m left to my imagination. I see her as tall and pretty. Her eyes dance when she talks and her delicate hands feel like silk when she holds me. In my mind, she is the very picture of love. In my mind, she sings softly to me each night as I drift to sleep. In my mind, her voice is a melody and her movements a beat.
But it is only in my mind.
I was two when she died. I don’t even know what happened. Father won’t tell me. The only time he mentions her name is when the vodka bottle is half empty. My father, at half empty, is pleasant, relaxed, almost happy. When the bottle is empty he is sad, mournful and wants only to be alone. Most of my nights are spent wrapping a blanket around the shaking shoulders of my empty bottled father.
My father with a full bottle of vodka is frightening. This means he’s sober and my full bottled father is filled with dashed dreams and self loathing. He is the father I fear most. The full bottled papa is why I keep pouring.
“Luda!”
I jump and look in the mirror again. Is this the same reflection she saw when she looked in it? Large brown eyes, thick brown hair and a small red mouth? Today I don’t have time to wonder. I quickly hide my precious mirror, protecting it from a potential rage of the full bottled father. Rushing out the door, I smooth my tattered skirt. My father stands by the front door of our flat, his hand wrapped around a nearly empty bottle of cheap vodka.
I haven’t eaten for two days so he could have his poison.
©Kelli Stuart 2011
Thanks for taking this journey into my imagination with me. I’m really excited to share it with you all. Happy Monday!
Not My Finest Moment
March 17, 2011 by
His face was pock marked, the divets in his cheeks glinting in the moonlight. He wore skinny jeans before skinny jeans were in and his dark windbreaker hung loosely on his gaunt frame. His frizzy hair was cut into a mullet after mullets were in style.
Were mullets ever in style?
He sauntered up to us and we froze. The still night air thickened and for the first time we questioned our decision for coming out. It was 1:00 am and our group was comprised of eighteen year olds, all of us wearing our newfound freedom like a superpower.
We were in college, man. Why wouldn’t we go out at 1:00 am?
We were standing right in the middle of a field where history and tragedy had met only three years earlier. Where crazy met the FBI. We were standing on David Koresh’s burned down Branch Davidian compound, a group of 8 or 9 college freshman who decided at the last minute to tour the compound…in the middle of the freaking night.
As we walked through what was mostly an overgrown field we saw him walking toward us and we froze. “What the BEEP are you kids doing out here?” he asked, the butt of the cigarette stuck between his lips dancing in the dark like a firefly.
We didn’t answer because we didn’t have a good answer. What the BEEP were we doing out there?
Finally someone spoke. “What are you doing out here?” he inquired.
“Aw, I was a reporter when everything went down here a few years ago.” And that’s it. That was his explanation for visiting this site of horror at 1:00 am. His reason was worse than ours.
“C’mon,” he offered, puffing smoke into the already thick Waco air, “I’ll show you around.” And with that we followed him. Why didn’t we decline and turn away? I don’t know. Why were we there in the first place?
For the next 30-45 minutes we were taken on a fascinating tour of David Koresh’s compound complete with the most colorful tour guide I’ve ever known. His name was Michael. I don’t think he was a reporter. My first clue was when he took us to what looked like a fox hole in the ground and regaled us with tales of David himself hiding there. He showed us bullet holes in the back of a burned out bus and told us about the children and wives hiding throughout the compound.
He knew more than what an average news reporter should have known. And suddenly I knew more than an average eighteen year old should have known.
There were a couple of voices of reason who were persistently trying to convince us to leave. Girls who were uncomfortable with this man’s in depth knowledge and offensive language. Maybe we should have listened to their reasoning and left, but the rest of us were so intrigued that we squelched wisdom and followed curiosity.
We all know what happened to the cat who did the same, right?
At one point, one of these voices of reason spoke up as Michael set forth an obsenity filled rant on what went down on the land on which we stood.
“Um, sir?” she said, her voice small but defiant. “Could you please watch your language? I find it very offensive.”
Insert very awkward pause.
And on we went, Michael not toning down his color and no one else daring to say another word. Finally we were back where we started and we stood huddled together, a group of foolish youth who had just had an unexpected adventure.
“It would probably be best if you kids didn’t come out here in the middle of the night again,” Michael said. “Sometimes people come out here to defend the land and the people in the house over there have guns.”
He gestured to a house a few meters from the property. For the first time it dawned on me that maybe we weren’t even supposed to be here in the middle of the night. I do believe we all suffered from freshman brain – you know where common sense flees for a period of time and that which once seemed crazy now seemed perfectly normal.
We nodded, thanked him for showing us around and quickly drove back to the Baylor campus, all of us talking a mile a minute. Was he really a reporter? Was he a Branch Davidian? How did he know all of that?
I never visited Koresh’s compound again. I’ve never seen it in the daylight. I’ve heard that they have since built a museum on the grounds and that it is better protected than it was back then.
But I saw all I needed to see that sticky Texas night. It was night that I can honestly say was not one of my finest life moments…
But what an adventure, huh?!
Images
March 16, 2011 by
This morning I stepped outside and smelled spring. She is fighting back at Old Man Winter and this morning I do believe she won. It smells fresh, new and warm. According to Tia, “It smells like Florida.”
The Plague that settled upon our house finally caught up to me. I thought that I just might escape it, but alas, it wasn’t to be. It appears that some unknown force has deposited two ton sandbags in my sinuses, has jackhammered behind my eyes and has run a cheese grater down my throat. I do believe that someone then lit a match and tossed it up my nostril, laughing maniacally as everything from my neck up began to burn.
How’s that for imagery?
I’ve been taking so many vitamins that I practically glow in the dark so I was quite certain I would laugh in the face of this crud. Instead it is laughing at me and my flaming sinuses.
Nyquil gives me strange dreams. Two night ago I spent half the night trying to outrun a very cunning snake. I climbed trees and hid under beds but everywhere I turned the snake was there, licking his lips in anticipation. I finally woke up and had to convince myself that I wasn’t actually being chased by a 50 foot python.
I then fell back to sleep and dreamt that the President of the United States was the target of an assassination plot and I was the one tasked with thwarting this plot. Greg Kinnear was the President and I was bound and determined to save him.
Uuuuuummmmm….
Last night’s dreams again involved critters chasing me as well as preparations to welcome a new child into our family. This was all in the same dream. It was as if I would switch from one scene to another and neither related to the other. I woke up very confused.
And no, I’m not pregnant. I’m just sick. And a little drugged up.
I found a Russian App for the iPad and the kids are playing it right now. It does my heart good to know that they are enjoying the language that is so near and dear to my heart. They are by no means fluent and I don’t expect them to be, but I do hope that someday they will share my love for all things Russian/Ukrainian and that can be something that we share as a family.
My house exploded this morning. Yesterday it was clean and today it’s…not. I’m not sure how that happens but it seems to happen multiple times a day. I clean up, the house throws up and so on and so forth. I don’t know how we’re ever going to sell this house.
On Tuesdays, the kids and I take a Russian theater class. The teacher is hilarious and takes her craft seriously. Yesterday she asked us to pretend we were holding a flower and wanted us to breathe in slowly through our noses then exhale through our mouths. We were to imagine the smell of the flower.
Sloan misunderstood her directions and after a couple of breaths leaned over to me and stage whispered, “Are we pretending to smoke?! ‘Cause that’s bad for you.”
Speaking of images, like everyone else I am horrified by the scenes coming from Japan. The damage is spectacular and horrifying and my heart goes out to the thousnads of people who have been so devastatingly affected. For a great way to help out Japan, go to my friend Nicole’s blog.
Want to see some truly beautiful images? Visit my sister-in-law, Becke’s blog and look at the pictures she took on her photo walk. She’s just a tiny bit talented with a camera…
This is the part of the post where I sign off. I have to hop in my smokin’ hot minivan and play mom for the rest of the day.
Peace out.
I’m a dork…
A few of my favorite things
March 10, 2011 by
As I begin seriously working on my novel again, I’ve spent some time reading through the books that bring me the most inspiration. Books that move my heart, make me laugh, make me cry and make me think that I could maybe, possibly write prose so poetic you feel as if you’re standing in the middle of the action. Here are a few of the books that move me:
The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver: I read this book in college and remember being stunned at the magic that sprang forth from each page. This book is a tragedy from start to finish, but it’s also poetry in motion. It’s so beautifully written that you don’t notice the heartache until it’s right on top of you.
The Girl with the Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier: I love this book. It is also tragic, but in a less blatant form. It’s a historical novel, which is my favorite kind of book and the imagery is so vivid that you feel like you’re a part of the Vermeer painting yourself.
Anna Karenina by Lev Tolstoy: I love this novel. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. This book makes me happy. And sad. But mostly happy.
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte: Another beautiful tale of love and tragedy. After reading this book I often find myself writing Thee and Thou as if it’s natural, every day language…
Aside from books, here are a few more of my favorite things.
Coffeemate Peppermint Mocha Creamer: I was positive that this was only a holiday flavoring offered for Christmas so every time I go to the store I buy more of this in the fear that they’re going to yank it off the shelves. So far they haven’t, but I’m not taking any chances. I’ve got seven bottles of it in my fridge.
You know that moment when you walk into your kids’ rooms after lights out and they’re sound asleep, their mouths open and their faces peaceful? You lean down and smell their hair and breathe in the scents of lavendar and lotion, then you gently kiss their soft, squishy cheeks.
That is so my favorite thing.
My seven year old says the funniest things. My favorite from just this morning was when I pulled out the nail clippers to tackle the claws he likes to call toes.
“No! Don’t clip my toenails!” he cried. “Why?” I asked. “Because they’re my weapons,” came the reply. “I need them in case Tia and Landon start attacking me.”
Listening to his reasoning is definately one of my favorite things.
Sleeping. Last night I slept eight and a half hours uninterrupted. I’m fairly certain I didn’t move the entire night. And that is one of my favorite things.
What are a few of your favorite things?
You won’t judge me, right?
March 1, 2011 by
Alternately titled: I’m a big dork and now you know.
I have wonderful friends. Really, really great friends who love me and look out for me. Last Saturday when Sloan was so sick, I talked with my friend Elizabeth. She immediately identified with my fatigue and pain and did what only a sweet friend would do.
She brought me Peppermint Mocha Coffeemate, because she knows I’m addicted to it, and she dropped off and stack of movies for the kids to watch.
She saved me.
We piled up on the floor with blankets (and coffee) and had a movie marathon. We watched High School Musical 2 and 3. This is the part where I reveal how big of a dork I am. I am ashamed and yet…I’m not.
Ahem…
I don’t hate the High School Musical trilogy. In fact *looks around, leans in close and whispers* I actually like the movies in all their cheesy flare. Had I seen these as a preteen I would have definately had posters and CD’s (okay, Cassette Tapes – I know, I know…) and maybe even a pin or two for my jean jacket.
Part of my enjoyment could be my soccer mom crush on Zac Efron. Part of it stems from my life long love of obsession with musicals. I have loved them since I was a kid. I remember as a young girl wishing I could live in a musical. How fun would it be to burst into song and have everyone join you both in song and in dance? Think how sunny and fun life would be if we sang out our problems and dreams!
Lee thinks I’m the only person who would find this fun.
So there you have it. I like High School Musical. All three of them. I like them, okay? Yes, they’re silly and overly dramatic and over the top, but they make me smile and I may or may not bob my head to the beat when the campy songs start up.
So this morning, after Sloan got on the bus (yes, he’s finally going back to school), when Tia and Landon asked if they could watch it…well, I said yes. Because I wanted to see Zac listen to the songs.
Now you know. I wanted to share this with you because you’re my friends and I know you won’t judge me. Right? I mean, we can still be friends, can’t we? Please?
Try not to be jealous, everyone. I’m not always this cool.
The Art
February 24, 2011 by
A ten year old girl sits intently over her metal framed desk, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth as her pencil scratches furiously across the lined paper. She sighs, erases, then places pencil to paper again. An adventure is spilling from her fingertips. It involves a hot air balloon and a chicken.
She knows it’s brilliant.
With a modicum of flair, the girl hands it to her teacher looking much like the Cheshire Cat. Two days later, her story come back with a bright red smiley face and the words GREAT JOB! The teacher pulls her aside later and tells the girl to never be afraid to use her imagination and to keep telling stories.
So the girl does.
A thirteen year old girl sits in her bedroom with the blank pages of a journal on her lap. It is the place where the angst of teendom spills forth in childlike poetry. She pours out her heart with emotion and gives full expression to every hurt, every confusion, every fear, every joy.
She lays the journal down and immediately feels the need to write some more.
So she does.
A sixteen year old girl sees a younger classmate hurting and wants to help. She’s not good with words unless she is able to put them on paper so she decides to write a devotional. With great fervor, she writes a seven day devotional in which she hopes to convey God’s love in a way that replaces the pain with hope. She never found out if she succeeded, but she begins to wonder if her passion could be used for good.
So she continues to dream.
A nineteen year old girl is called into her professor’s office. She sees her paper on his desk and suddenly fears she has made a grave error in her writing. She listens in awe as he instead praises her paper and asks if he can submit it to a local writing contest. “You know we have a Professional Writing Major here, don’t you?” he asks. “You should think about that.”
She thinks, she decides, she declares.
A twenty year old sits on a train from Prague to Ukraine. She is alone with a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and a copy of Jane Eyre. She puts down her book and looks out at the changing leaves and rolling hills of a foreign land. She picks up her pen and journal and writes. She uses “Thee” and “Thou” and feels like Charlotte Bronte on a grand adventure.
She feels romantic and poetic.
A twenty three year old girl is newly married and sitting in her empty apartment, her eyes glued to the computer screen before her. She has her first big break. A book. And she is terrified. So she does the only thing she really knows how to do, she writes. Most of it isn’t fit for publication, but she works out the kinks through the melodic clicking of her keyboard.
Her dream is coming true.
A cough cough year old girl gets up long before the sun to make use of the few brief moments she’s allotted with her thoughts. She pulls out her dusty journal and for the first time in years touches pen to paper. It’s as if her first love has been there waiting for her all along. Life flows from her fingertips and she quickly puts her pen back down, almost breathless.
She forgot how much she loved the art.
This same girl is digging back into the recesses of her imagination and letting it run free again. Hot air balloons and chickens suddenly don’t seem that strange. In fact, it feels like a fantastic adventure.
Today I am speaking at a local career fair on the art and craft of writing. What will I say to them? Perhaps, chase your dreams. Or maybe, don’t be afraid to use your imagination. Should I include have a back up plan?
What advice would you give young minds eager to jump into their own futures?
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