you never know...

i have an "I 'fleur-de-lis' NOLA" translate--I love New Orleans Louisiana--bumper sticker on my car.

i walked out to the car the other day to find something under my windshield. thinking it was some kind of ad offering to install siding for my brick house i was about to throw it into the recycle. but upon closer look this is what i found:

Hello,
My name is Emma and I just move here from New Orleans. I am terribly homesick, and just wanted to tell you your bumper sticker made my day.
Thank you!
Displaced NOLA Girl.

you just never know...

the goose egg

my mom likes to tell the story of when i started to walk. she said she lost 20 pounds that month.

i crawled at 5 months and ran at 8 months. yes, i said 8.

that was in the days of hard leather soled baby shoes. we had a terrazzo floor in our house. a pre-toddler running on a terrazzo floor in hard leather soled baby shoes are not a good mix.

mom says that every time she would schedule photos for me i'd fall down and end up with a big goose egg on my forehead. she must have rescheduled all of those appointments because i've never seen proof.

when i was 5 my teacher suggested that i might be "hyperactive" and my parents should take me to the doctor. thank goodness for good old Dr. Roach. he told her i was too coordinated to be hyperactive. not to worry, i was just a busy child.

i've always been coordinated. of course, i'd wake with party bruises of unknown origin, but never anything substantial.

but this saturday i hit my head and i now have a big goose egg.

i was putting my sweet sleepy sugar lump in the van after a late dinner. i was parked next to a tree. so i used the remote to open the sliding door.

as i bent down to walk under the branches to get to the open door the sliding door slammed into my face. i saw stars, my teeth rattled in my head and i was a bit dizzy for a few moments.

my forehead took the brunt of the hit. i've got a big old lump just above my eyebrow. it's a pretty shade of purple right now. i'm looking forward to the colors to come.

the worst part? i didn't even have a drink with dinner.

music and the creative process*

*disclaimer:
i stole this idea from my high school friend, Bob. Bob is an architect and wrote about the presence of music in the studio when he is working. he's got a pretty cool blog. you can find him here: http://networkedblogs.com/4fHt4

i use music when i'm writing my sermons. i'll usually latch on to a specific song that somehow puts the scripture into perspective for me and i'll listen to it over and over while i'm writing. (that and red vines get me through!) most of my sermons have some lyrics from a song in them. sometimes my sermon titles are names of songs. i've even been known to make the congregation sing. (so i don't have to sing alone.)

writing a sermon is a huge undertaking--in my opinion. i read the scripture, go back to the Greek or Hebrew (yes, i can read ancient Greek and Hebrew), consider inconsistencies in translation between sources, read surrounding and referenced scripture, find some relevance to what's happening in the world today, and write a sermon. then i throw that first sermon away and write the real sermon. this takes me anywhere from 10-20 hours.

there is no substitute for music in the creative process. it stimulates my brain and imagination in ways nothing else does.

my tastes run the gamut, not just for listening but also for preaching. in my last sermon i used the song "kookaburra." the sermon before that was James Taylor's "Home by Another Way." I've used Talking Heads, Indigo Girls, John Williams, John Barry, Etta James, Marc Cohn.... I'm all over the map, with music from soundtracks making the most appearances. I think this is because the music evokes images and memories for me. also, just putting iTunes on shuffle and letting it pick up all the things you don't often hear can be interesting. i never know when the inspiration will hit.

so, how 'bout you? where does music fit into your creative process?

i enjoy being a girl

so this is my morning:

so i got up 3 hours earlier than usual in order to drive 1.5 hours to an all day meeting in Jerseyville, IL.

so i recently decided i needed waterproof mascara so i wouldn't sweat mascara all down my face when i'm doing my uber-tough workouts. (or when my eyes water.)

so i'm putting on my waterproof mascara this morning and poke the applicator in my eye. normally this wouldn't be a big deal, but i wear contacts. the giant smudge of waterproof mascara is on my contact. waterproof. contact. i. repeat. waterproof. contact.

so i take my contact out and put it in the no rub solution and start rubbing like crazy, all the while trying not to tear the contact. of course the waterproof mascara won't come off. waterproof. contact.

so i get out the eye makeup remover and pour some of that in my hand on the contact. yes, it's safe for contact lens wearers. i scrub that baby as best as i can and finally get the giant smudge of waterproof mascara off my contact. but now i have eye makeup remover all over my contact.

so i get out my no rub solution again and rub that puppy until the eye makeup remover is cleaned off. contact is now good to go.

so now i have waterproof mascara all over my face from trying to get the contact out and then back in. it's virtually impossible to fix that kind of mess without starting over.

so i start over. this process has taken at least 20 minutes.

so i'm running late for my meeting, it's raining and i'm going a place i've never gone before. i set my iPhone map app to get me to the church on time. but i'm directionally challenged. i take a wrong turn and end up in sauget. yes, sauget.

so there's no easy way to get back to where my map app tells me to go so i decide to venture out on my own. maybe i'll get there, maybe i won't.

so, long story short: i got there. just in time. contacts in and makeup on.

but don't think i didn't have a drink when i got home.

across the pond

i am obsessed with all things British. as we speak, i'm watching the results of the House of Commons election results on c-span.

i've never been to Great Britain. some day I'll go.

mostly i want to go to Scotland.
i know most of you are shocked by this confession. if you know me, you know how much i hate cold and moist weather. I'm not saying i want to live in Scotland. i just want to visit. maybe for an extended time. i'll let you know when i get there.

the problem is that i have no plans to get there.

why, you ask, would i want to go to Scotland?
first and foremost, the scottish accent is so sexy.
second, my family is from there. yes, it was a long time ago, but still...
third, is is the birthplace of presbyterianism as we know it. John Knox and his pals.
fourth, i love tartan plaid. i know, dork.
fifth, i want a sporran. yes, i know i can get one at Thistle and Clover in St. Charles, but i want one from there.
sixth, i know the loch ness monster exists and i plan to photograph her.
seventh, i want some Wellies.
eighth, i can't think of an eighth. do i really need an eighth?

of course there are places i'd like to see in addition to Scotland. i'd like to go to Northern Ireland. i'd like to see Wales and the Isle of Mann. i'd like to go the beaches. i'd like to see the lake country. i'd like to explore the land of Jane Austin. i want to spell words with "ou's." it makes me feel so sophisticated. and all those other accents are sexy, too. if i'm flying over there why not get my money's worth?

so, anyone have some frequent flier miles they would like to donate to the "pat wants to go to Great Britain" fund?
i'd bring you back a souvenir!

cottonwood

If I had lived 200 years ago I would have been called "sickly." I would have been one of those people who was constantly run-down. I would be the one everybody looked at with sad eyes and the knowing nod of the head as I sniffled and coughed my way through life. I wouldn't be able to provide for the family because gardening made me too sick to do anything else. Poor me.

I hate cottonwood. Cottonwood trees infect the planet with their beautiful, fuzzy spawn, coating the planet with a fine layer of spring "snow." Sure it looks pretty, but cottonwood is pure evil.

Every April the cottonwood trees would bloom and every April I would get sick. Until the spring my dad cut down our cottonwood tree. God bless him.

I thought that when I left Texas I had left the cottonwood behind.

Our neighborhood has a cottonwood tree. Every April it blooms and every April I get sick. I take my zyrtec. I use my nasal stereoids. I use my neti pot. I stand in a hot shower. In my 41 years I haven't found anything that will work. (And before you start recommending decongestants and cough syrup, I can't take them. When my neurologist says "no" I tend to follow her advice.)

I dream of the day this tree will be gone.

I want to sneak over and cut it down in the middle of the night. But then I remember that a) I don't own a chainsaw and b) even if I did, I don't know how to fell a tree.

So while I wait for lightening to hit the tree, even if it means our power goes out, I'll spend every April (and May) sick.

Damn cottonwood.

the power of a colored pencil

When I was little--maybe not too little--5th grade, maybe--my mom got me these incredible colored pencils for Christmas. I think there must have been 40 colors. All the shades I could imagine. And these pencils could be blended and used with water to change the texture and feel of the drawing.

I don't know what happened to the wonderful ones mom bought for me. Next time I'm at my mom's house I'm going to hunt for those pencils.

Now don't let me fool you into thinking I'm any kind of artist. I can't draw a stick figure.

But give me a drawing, and I'll color it in like nobody's business. I love colored pencils--and crayons, for that matter--for all the shades and textures you can show. A colored pencil is powerful!

My love of color and texture doesn't stop with the pencils. Put me in a needlework store with a painted canvas and I'll give it every shade and texture the thread can imagine.

Now I have my own set of colored pencils. Mine are simple Crayola pencils with just a few colors. But they are mine. Nobody else can use them. Shoot, nobody else can even touch them.

My colored pencils are my release. Sometimes I just think about the fact that I have them. I don't even have to take them out of their hiding place. I just imagine the possibilities they hold. I know it sounds crazy, but they're a breath of fresh air.

That's the power of a colored pencil. Go get your own!