Everything She Writes {Blog}
Weekend Inspiration
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I spent the weekend with a couple who never cease to bring a smile to my face. My great Aunt and Uncle live in Provo and hosted me while I was there for a wonderful Writing Conference. Being in there home is like breathing fresh air from a mountain top. There are vistas, revelations, and a sense of warmth that you get from being so close to the sun. I love these people. When I leave I feel better – loved inside and out. We talked about silly and important things, she shared her hairspray, and one night we stayed up too late for sensible people. It was heavenly.
There is something about genuinely good souls that radiates these qualities without strings or qualifiers. I’m glad to have them in my life.
Weekend Inspiration
Ah…Stephen Covey knows how to put it doesn’t he?
I’m learning the art of saying NO to some things because of that burning YES.
Lately I’ve been saying YES to a new arrangement with a fellow writer and lovely friend. She sent me a message one day with a singular idea to swap babysitting so we could take turns writing. She was getting Trouble, so I worried for just a moment before flashing her out a return message with the basic jist of “Heck yeah!” written all over it.
Can I tell you how I had to prepare my head. How I had to set my phone on vibrate and only answer for her. How I had to tell my husband that between these hours on this day I am in an underground vault with no reception and absolutely unable to be reached for any reason? How I had to physically remind myself that once the clock dawned on said hours Facebook and Pinterest were enemies to my progress? How there were several nervous moments when the paper and I looked expectantly at one another, me wondering where to begin and it taunting – “Bring it!”
And like any great cheerleader, I brought it! It has been…can I say amazing or does that sound too high school? It’s been such a revelation. Writing, consistently, for hours one day. Lovely! I highly recommend it! I’m also finding more ways to write throughout the week, squeezing it in, working more efficiently on other projects so I can do more of what I want and like Stephen said, saying NO when I should and embracing more of that burning YES.
I am LOVING it. Is there something you should say yes to that will help you live more of the life you’re meant to live?
I Knew You Were Trouble
Of course we’ve been listening to this song… and then changing the lyrics to fit the little man in our lives who just happens to have this nickname. Ha ha! He has been so adorable lately. Still Trouble, but just the sweetest little man. I love him to pieces!
But back to the song. I don’t know why, but watching the music video filled me with such emotion! I guess as a mother I can’t listen without thinking of two little girls in my family who are the most precious things on the planet. I think of every young woman I know and how tempted we are to follow that guy who has some kind of IT factor, no matter how our inner compass is SCREAMING to run the other way. Sometimes we have to learn the hard way. Sometimes we don’t. I, myself, am grateful for that inner compass that has kept me out of the worst of scenes because I was just willing to care about what it was whispering. To all my beautiful, young friends I say this: there is nothing glamorous about being used. You’re purpose is far greater. Live up to it!
Testing – testing
Have I mentioned my propensity for trying new recipes. For parties, or when guests are coming for dinner or I’m bringing something for a dinner swap? I just can’t help it! I see something that sounds delicious and I know it will be…I just feel it! The other day it was this:
Swiss Chicken by Six Sisters Stuff
Weekend Inspiration
I used to just post the words – clear and simple. They sound so profound without embellishment…but there’s more.
There’s a busy life with the hurtling ahead of intentions and hopes. This week we’re wrapped up preparing for Trouble’s 3rd birthday, watching Mr. Houston pack for a campout with his Boy Scout troop, listening to the discussion of a new Charter School thankfully closer to home but possibly harder to get into. Weighing, measureing…celebrating.
A thousand thoughts come screaming by while in an ordinary day. The ones that stick out remind me of what life is all about and I grasp onto them, Pin them on my wall and think about what they mean and why they stood out to me. These words and many others have been speaking to me about being authentic. About really believing that this life isn’t an accident, but a glorious dance of possibilities, disappointments and renewed hope. This season breathes it in the puff of clouds that drift across the sky and tiny furled leaves read to burst out into the sunshine.
Writing…become an author, is all about that dance. There are moments – beautiful rays of sunshine that come from a sweetly posted note on Facebook from a satisfied reader. And there are disappoinments – when everything isn’t going quite as smoothly as planned. Yet I can’t help the edge of contentment I feel to be on this journey, no matter what the road brings. I feel so blessed to be a writer in this age, with so much open to me, so many who have paved the way. I look around me and could not be happier with my company.
So I guess I hope to remind you that there is far more to this life than ease and glamour. There are hard won battles and satisfied sleep after a long day’s work. There is sweat and tears. There is peace and contentment after the storm. If you’re fighting, or battling, sweating or crying – you’re not alone, and you never, ever will be. It’s what I believe to the very center of my being. I believe it. And if today you can’t believe – just lean on me…
The Twist
Remember how I said I only get amazing ideas when I can’t write them down? It happens when I’m driving kids to and from school while listening to music, it happens in the shower, it happens when I should be sleeping. You get the idea.
Amelia secretly waiting for Gilbert...
Anyway, I had it. I clung to it so I wouldn’t forget how it all works together while hurrying to my computer. I wrote up a query to shoot off to one of the editors who has looked at some of my other work. I am hoping this is the story she’s looking for. Crossing fingers and looking forward to a few hours to write this baby!
Run For Your Life {Short Story}
This is a short I did for a competition. It touches on a subject I have seen shades of in too many lives. I just want to say this. If you know someone who is struggling with any kind of domestic abuse, your kindness, confidence and listening ear could be the drop of goodness that turns the tide in their self confidence and gives them courage to run for their lives. If YOU are that person, there is help and hope…ALWAYS. Here are a couple of resources (please use a safe computer – libraries are great - to explore these options!):
Safe Nest 646-4981 & 1-800-486-7282
Run For Your Life
It all started with a word. Written in block letters. Black ink pressed into nondescript white paper. That word was enough to break open the shell I’d been living in; the tattered and broken skin that surrounded me and kept me from feeling the sunlight on a bright day or the mists of rain that fell whenever the barometer dropped.
My name is Hayley and I’m a survivor. Before that word I was certain I was the only one to scratch my way straight from hell, to endure the bloody abuse of another person’s fury and still have a beating heart. I thought for sure he was right. No one would ever love the ragged torn mess of my spirit trampled into the dirt.
I didn’t even recognize it anymore.
And then the woman with cornrows and skin the color of strongly brewed mocha pressed the torn off piece of paper into my palm. At the grocery halfway between the eggs and the orange juice, without saying a word. Only a flash of white teeth and colorful skirt. My body reacted to her touch, the beating of a hummingbird heart as fear clenched it.
One of the effects of repeated abuse is the taste of dread that lingers in your mouth like bad medicine. But it was only a word I’d never seen before. I tucked it into my purse and snuck through the store hoping to be a chameleon, unseen, giving no cause for one more jealous outburst. The old bruises were covered, the cut on my lip where the force of his knuckles split it in two almost healed and covered with careful artistry. The art of hiding torture and I could win the academy award.
When I got home he was gone so I could step to the sink and vomit my anxiety before hurrying to the computer.
One word from a stranger – Sankofa.
My hands began to tremble. I felt certain he could sense what I was thinking through the walls and down the street at the bar where he was gearing up for another round.
This woman knew. Somehow she’d seen past my makeup job to the frightened refugee beneath. Her word was telling me to run for my life. The idea ignited a riot of nerves and rapid fire questions.
Where would I go?
Could I do it?
What if he found me?
Was he right?
Was I stupid?
Selfish?
Repulsive?
Useless?
Did I even deserve to be free?
The mirror over the sink looked back at me – a woman with terror etched into her skin. I could still remember the look on his face when I lay on the ground that night, hoping if I held still long enough, he’d stop. Trying to breathe shallow so the burning break in my ribs wouldn’t betray me. It was a look bordering on hatred and remorse. The warm slug of spit he left on my arm told me hatred won out.
I ran a finger down my cheek, watching it bump over the bruises and scars. My mothers’ last words rang in my ears.
“It’s never too late to have a happy life, Hayley.”
How many times had I sworn she was a liar? Happy? That word sounded impossible. But life. That I wanted. That I clung to no matter how badly he tried to wrench it out of me. Slowly with tender fingers I washed away the makeup to reveal blossoms of sick color. The truth was painted on my face and down my arms, mushrooming across my ribcage.
For the first time in years I looked that woman in the eye and whispered the words.
“I deserve to live.”
She looked surprised and then resolute.
Caught with a sudden decision, I grabbed the paper, a change of clothes and a few odds and ends that meant something to me, stashing them in a tote before dialing the one number I’d refused to call since we ran away from my hometown four years earlier.
Three rings felt like a thousand years. My heart beat deep in my chest and I walked briskly away from the apartment, the scene of my incarceration, the epicenter of my abuse.
When her voice came on the line I almost couldn’t speak. Emotions closed around my throat and sobs caught my words away.
“Hello? Hayley, is that you?”
“M-mom…”
I could hear the breath catch in her throat.
“Hayley.”
The word was a whispered prayer. The next sound was her calling my dad, the jingle of keys and the simultaneous slam of car doors.
“Tell me where you are.”
I struggled to control the relief raging through my chest at the sound of her determined voice.
“I’ll be waiting at the Church on West Pacific.” I was checking over my shoulder every two seconds as the fear mounted between my shoulder blades. It couldn’t be this easy, could it? Every fiber of my being sensed the danger of my movements. Each step felt like a resounding nail in my coffin, cementing the reaction I knew would come. I could already smell his breath saturated in alcohol and see his hatred glazed eyes.
Alcohol was the root of his problems. It had always been a part of our relationship, the unspoken elephant in the room. When the economy dove and he lost his job, one love blossomed while the other shriveled. The occasional stinging comments about my hair or weight quickly transformed into outright punches coupled with screamed obscenities. The next day remorse turned into daily resentment. My body was a witness to his loss of control, shouting the evidence in his face. He chose to drown it out, fueling the next maniacal rage.
Though we lived in a large city three hours from my hometown, my parents were at the door of the church in two. My nails were nubs. The ticking of the clock in the corner was a second by second alarm screaming out my escape. I could tell by the rocket of my heart rate when he’d be home. I shivered at the sound his voice would make, the instant escalation from anger to fury when he didn’t find me waiting with dinner and permission to continue our tradition.
The car was a haven of tinted windows and door locks. I closed my eyes while the tires squealed away from the curb. We were bank robbers speeding off in the getaway car. The precious currency we had stolen away was my hope for life.
It would be four solid weeks before I looked at the woman in the mirror again. Twenty-eight days of hiding in my childhood room. Slowly I remembered the dreams that had sprung up there and gathered them back into my arms. On day twenty-nine I came out. My chest was beginning to expand where the ribs had healed. The bruises that haunted my flesh had yellowed and faded. I hadn’t tasted blood for almost a month. The woman who looked back at me over the pedestal sink was hardly recognizable. Mother had done her best to add flesh to my cheekbones and fill out my jeans where they’d hung limply from my hips. The appetite that starved on a diet of anxiety resurfaced at the sight of home cooking delivered on a plate of safety.
Yet the refugee inside of me was still waiting for his knock on the door. When it came on day thirty-one the explosion I was bracing for never surfaced. I could only imagine the look on my father’s face when they came nose to nose over my life. He’d always been a quiet man, but even I could hear his steady words up through the stairs.
“Come around here again, go near my daughter you filthy slug and you’ll know what kind of bullets I use in my gun.”
I was holding my breath in abject terror brought on by the sound of my tormentor’s voice. I’d experienced his worst. I wasn’t prepared for his quick dismissal, the roar of his truck as he peeled from the drive or the click of the locks slipping into their slots on the door. It took me a moment to remember he was only a bully. And all bullies are cowards.
I knew I had a long way to go before his words would be uprooted from my heart. They were burrowers, sinking tiny barbs below the skin to root in the most tender parts.
But there was a hope burning in my chest that hadn’t been there before. It flamed to the surface on day forty-two, when I knew for sure he wouldn’t be coming back. My Dad was sitting beside me on the sofa while the TV droned around us. His arm slid around my shoulders and I realized he was sniffling.
“Hayley, I’m so glad you’re home.”
He stopped because now tears were streaming into his white mustache.
“We prayed so hard that one day…. What made you call?”
There hadn’t been a word about that man in forty-two days. Even his visit had gone unmentioned, though I could feel the charge in the air for days after their confrontation. When Dad asked the question it reminded me that I had to start talking soon or I might never say the words. The truth we’d hidden from neighbors and friends for four years would be forever silenced by remnants of fear. That silence felt like permission, agreement that I’d deserved the beatings and threats. But I knew now. I knew it wasn’t true.
The well that had shriveled to a trickle in the overbearing sun spilled over, one bucket at a time. I told him about the taste of a fist thrown into my face out of the blue. Of the lies he hurled at me and the way my scalp turned to fire when he would yank me up by the hair. I told him how I covered it all with long sleeves, makeup and false smiles. The excuses for missing work when it hurt too much to move the next day and the endless promises that it would never happen again.
There is a horrible kind of death that happens to a father when they know they’ve been unable to protect their child from the worst humanity has to offer. I saw it happening as I spoke and yet the flood of confessions went unstemmed.
It was late into the night when it ebbed. He held me in his arms, quietly sobbing.
“I want to kill him,” he said finally.
“Me too,” I agreed. “But that woman in the store, her I want to hug and thank and ask…why?”
“You said she gave you a word?”
“Yes. It’s African. Sankofa. It means when the village is destroyed, go in and find what’s worth keeping. Take it with you, leave and never look back. Dad I looked in the mirror and all I saw was burned flesh. The only thing to salvage was a longing to live.”
“So you left and never look back.”
I wrapped my arms around his thick chest and placed my head near his heart like I had when I was a girl. It beat a firm and steady rhythm that echoed sixty years of goodness.
“No I found what was worth keeping. It’s here Dad. Real love from people who know all my flaws. Somewhere inside me there’s hope for real happiness and that maybe I deserve a piece of it.”
“No maybe, little girl,” Dad spoke into my hair, “You deserve every last crumb.”
One word, written in block letters. Black ink pressed into nondescript paper. Because of it I am a survivor. Today I keep that scrap of paper until I can pass it on to another woman with haunted eyes and terror nibbling at her soul. One day another prisoner will have the courage to run for her life.
By Christene Houston (c) 2012
Freeze
Let’s be honest. I have a problem. (Why does this not surprise anyone? 
)
When I don’t know how I want to proceed, I usually freeze. In October I went to an amazing conference for bloggers and the news was intense, interesting, deliberate. And I froze. Because as fabulous as the information was, I was processing from a different perspective than ever before. In my past lives I’ve been a crafty blogger, spinning off designs and recipes with my dear friend Heather of WhipperBerry.
WhipperBerry's Latest Genuis
Secretly seeking Christene Houston…{the author}.
When the time came and my book was out, I was blogging like it was business. I posted every. single. day. I wrote in advance, two weeks at a time. I snatched up beautiful pics and happy quotes. Because it’s what I do. It’s who I am and what makes up parts of me.
A Heart So Broken
But here I was faced with the decisions about advertising and writing for brands and I didn’t know who I wanted to be on that front. It’s my custom based in profound perfectionism to do things well and since I didn’t know how…I just paused.
Pausing isn’t such a bad thing. I still don’t know everything, but I do know what I love. I love having conversations.
I love finding recipes that rock and sharing them.
Texas Caviar
I love great music that speaks to and inspires me.
I love writing and sharing images or thoughts of the road I’m traveling on with my writing,
Pinterest - Quotes Worth Remembering
I hope you like it.
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Christene Houston
Bookworm, Vegas native, Momma, & Writer.
Get in touch at Christenehouston@aol.com.View Shopping Cart
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