These Are A lot Of My Favorite Things

(in no particular order and by no means exhaustive)  

In a nook in a bookstore near Notre Dame
In a nook in a bookstore near Notre Dame

Margaritas On the Rocks with Salt

Multiple Orgasms

Jeni's Ice Cream (Brown Butter Almond Brittle. Brambleberry Crisp. I could go on.)

Freshly Bleached Kitchen Sink

Rufus Wainwright

Perfectly Ripe Avocados

The Smell of Books

Clean Sheets After a Shower & a Shave

The Popping & Cracking of a Fire (contained, preferably, although I like 'em wild, too.)

Four Syllable Words

The Oregon Coast

Vincent Van Gogh

Salt Water Taffy

Laughing with Erin

Pianos Brought to Even Temperament

3D Scientific Models

Ravi's Butter Chicken


Zack's Lips & Eyes & Other Things As Well. ;-)

Red Wine

Word Games

Passport Stamps




Hot Air Balloons

Thick Socks on Slick Floors


Film Cameras

Danny Kaye

Imagining Being Very Very Small

Paris in the Fall

Paris At All



Stephen Sondheim

The Scientific Process




Two Birds

Made two people with two people. Out of youth, one; out of love, two.

("The clouds look like mountains or castles or both and I just want to be with you.")

Carried them both in the same little room; a space in my body

Universe filled with atoms collecting, it all coalescing

Into bodies brand new.


Thirty-six moments (A.K.A. thirty-six years)

Out of time, three; out of sight, four.

(Caught up to the age of the death of a girl who was so old to the people she'd made.)

And what about them?

How would they know that she was just one flake

In a whole lot of snow?

Where we are all falling

We are all falling

Yes, we are all falling

So where do you want to go?


Birds, if you need a people, a person to blame

Hold out your wings and I'll give you my name

Out of words, five; out of excuses, six.

Can't make amends for all that was battered and bruised yet

I shall always carry you

'Cause we are all falling

We are all falling

Yes, we are all falling

But what do you have to lose?

Fosca (Or My Tarchetti Muse)

Lyrics to a new song I'm working on and thought I'd share with all of you everyones.


Fosca (or My Tarchetti Muse)

Light, In the eyes makes more sense To think of them in the present tense. Second hand emotions Still taking up time. Shaking of the head and pinching of thighs. Don't think. Don't dwell on how they mesmerize.

One thousand watts to a lightbulb heart so used to being dark. Potential of shattering What does it matter when giving all the got? Years of not seeing the one always believing in everything they are?

A shard. They're a spike in the heart.

May's Word :: Redemption

As mentioned in this post May's word was "Redemption".

I ended up writing a...poem of sorts. Or something. It started off on bits of post it notes, moved to a note pad, from there to a word processing document and finally onto watercolour paper that I then sewed into my journal. I don't have much to say about it as it kinda speaks for itself other than it was a very healing bit of creativity for me.

I'll post the images that I scanned and also type out the words as well.






Redemption or A Cautionary Timeline Gospel Tale

Would that I were able
I would open my chest
And lay bare my heart
To try and show the crests
And ridges of the scars
That I carry around with honour.

One would think,
(After the damage it has sustained)
It must be a mechanical thing,
All whirrings and tickings,
Cogs and wheels moving
In a steady march of unceasing rhythm.
But, I assure you,
It feels even more deeply than
It ever has.
Loves more deeply than
It ever did.
While not yet residing in utter abandon,
(No, that won't come until this body falls away)
This heart of mine wraps its arms around
This life
And weeps with wonder at
The Restoration at
The Put-Back-Togetherness at
The Redemption
So lavishly shown.

Here is a timeline:

You see at four.
At eight.
At ten.
My heart was badly bruised
By the hands
By the fingers
By the tongues
By the lips of men.
At thirteen
My heart was shattered
By the death of my mother.
By the death of my father.
(Oh, he was physically present but long dead gone.)
At fifteen my heart was shot through
By the words of a man of God.
At eighteen I had not a heart left.
Twenty and a half and I married a manboy
But didn't have a heart to give him.
Twenty-two and a month I birthed a boy
And I shared some of his so big heart.
But I was a mother without a mother.
My heart arrested.
I did not know how to love.
I did not know what it meant.
Twenty-seven and I drowned in the sea
Of the marriage I never should have
Entered into in the first place.

(For all the young girls out there,
You must be sure you know who you are first.
I am a cautionary tale.
You do not want the kind of pain
That arises from ignorance
About yourself.
About what marriage really is.)

So I forgive the girl in me
Who made up stories to ease the pain.
And I accept the love extended to me
By the one who died to take it all away.
Even when I gave up on him
To try and save myself,
He still took the remnants of my heart,
All dusty on a shelf,
Poured a heavenly gold
To aggrandize the cracks
And kissed all of my scars
Never once taken aback
By my excuses,
My shame,
My guilt,
My lies.
My lies.
My lies.
My lies.

Here is a list:

A redeemed clean heart.
A renewed right spirit within me.
(Albeit ever and always in process.)
A husband who thrills me.
(He is radiant and ruddy, outstanding
Among ten thousand, even millions.)
A quiver full of boys,
Four arrows I delight in!
My family who loves me.
True friends who have stuck by me.
New friends who truly see me.

I look around
At the life that I live
At the LIFE in my life
And here come the tears,
Oh here comes the rain again,
And I think to myself,
"I am walking redemption.
I am living PROOF of redemption."
For I didn't receive everything I deserved,
But instead everything I didn't.

Thanks for reading. I'll let you know ASAP what this month's word will be!

Off to make dinner. ;-)

Happy Mother's Day

Erin is on the left and I am on the right. Circa 1982? Ish?)

There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of my mom. For those of you who didn't know, she died when I was 13. She was 36. In the picture above she was about 26? 27? She had around 10 years left to live. And I wasn't old enough to know yet the questions I would need to ask her.

To all of you who still have your moms, please, please, please. Hug her. Call her. Ask her questions about HER. Relish that she is still with you.

And to all of you who ARE mothers out there - we are in a wild, hard, joyous, heartbreakingly beautiful and mostly thankless journey. I am glad to be in the "club", as it were, with all of you.

"My mother is a poem
I'll never be able to write,
though everything I write
is a poem to my mother."

Sharon Doubiago

April's Word :: Surrender

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am a couple of days late in getting this up on the blog.

I apologise.

I thought I would have time while I was in Seattle with my husband, Zack, while he was teaching in the creativeLIVE studio. I never really had a chance to sit down and properly write anything out. Hawke came with us on this trip and while the Lord in heaven above knows that I love that baby boy with every fiber of my being there were moments when every fiber of my being wanted to duct tape him to a chair just to keep him stationary. For. Just. A. Second. Dear. LORD. Will. He. EVER. Stop. EVAR?

Zack and I agree that Hawke is, by far, the most stubborn, opinionated, free spirited, fearless child that we have. He is more than a handful. He is totally ours. ;-)

I digress.

I wrestled with Surrender. I didn't like what it brought up in me.

With Betsy it brought up something very different. A gorgeous painting. I love it so so much. Do me a favour and check it out and come back over here when you're done.


My wrestling with surrender made me face some hard stuff. I realised that I needed to let go of the desire for my old naysayers and even people I once called friends, to...what? Give their approval? Say that they understood? I dunno exactly how to put it. But it bothered me that I was holding on to this old hurt and wanting to be vindicated somehow.

*raises eyebrow*

I didn't want to surrender that. My surrendering meant forgiveness. I think you know what I mean.

And so out came the following words:

Waved a white flag in a small coffee shop
To help end an unwanted war.
The train wreck that came when I made up my mind
Placed sentries on guard at the door.
Too much weight placed on all of the hurt.

Sift through the words of the "I said" "They said",
Carry them into the night.
Cover them up with the bravery lines
That I carefully draw in my mind.
Too much hope placed on too many minds. (Mines?)

I sat down at the piano and began noodling around. I wasn't ever happy with the verse melody but I recorded it just the same. While I was working on the song out came these words,

"Heaven please help me, oh help me let go.
Heaven I'm asking, help me, let go."

And then, while I was actually recording the song, out came,

"I open my hands, I open my hands."

That wasn't planned. But there you go.

This was recorded at 4 A.M. and I never went back and changed anything. It was written and recorded all in one night (or day, as it were...).

And now I share it with you.

Click on the title below to listen...

Heaven Help Me

Just a snapshot, my version of a snapshot anyway, of a moment in time. A time I'm grateful for.

Now, if you haven't already, go check out Betsy's take on surrender.
It was her turn to choose the word for May and she chose the word "Redemption". I love this word. Love it. I'm looking forward to the process of working on this one.

Thanks for sticking it out with me as I struggle with trying to find the balance of mommyhood and wife...liness and being an artist. ;-) I shall persevere, however. I shall not give up. Too much is at stake. I believe it was Robert Louis Stevenson who said,

"Saints are sinners who kept on going."

Well keep on going I shall.

Word for this month...

Alright folks.

As mentioned in this post the word for this month is "Surrender".

Betsy sent me a list of words she had settled upon and I sent her some of mine. She said I could choose first and Surrender practically climbed on top of the other words in its attempt to get my attention. Which, in my opinion, wasn't very surrender-y of it.

There it stood, waving and falling all over itself, while I pretended not to see it. I tickled the other words, trying to get them to wake up and most would only roll over and open one eye, their expressions all but saying, "Meh."

I got the hint.

I surrendered to the capital "S" Surrender.

Before it becomes May, I shall post here whatever creative creativity blooms out of me after I've had time to chat with Surrender and get to know it a bit better. I have a feeling it's going to teach me quite a lot.

In other words and completely unrelated, I am currently sitting in a bagel & coffee shop on 8th Avenue and 25th street in New York. This picture does not adequately show how much cream cheese is on my bagel. There appears to be an entire TUB of the stuff on it. My expression is to show my concern. My concern over where that cream cheese will go once I eat it. Later on, in hindsight, meaning when I'm sighting my hind, I'll see exactly where it went.

Anyone else want to join this ride? If so, when the time comes and I post my Surrender related bit, put a link to yours in the comments and I'll make a list and we can all see. I think that would be fun. Maybe not as much fun as a whole huge room full of really bouncy mattresses but it would be close.

"Prince Humperdink: 'Surrender!'
Westley: 'You mean you wish to surrender to me? Very well then, I accept.'"
The Princess Bride

"All art requires courage."

This is my blackboard.

Or rather a bit of it. It's 8ft by something feet. It's big. It's my sanity board and how I help all of us keep track of what's going on in this busy house week after week.

But, up there in the left hand corner, see that?

"All art requires courage."

I've been more courageous as of late. I've been writing again, in the midst of the unpacking and transition of moving into a new house. By writing I mean songs. By writing I mean melodies. I confess I've been a little bit...well - A LOT a bit like a whiny three year old stamping my foot and pouting and screaming, "This is not how I like to make things!!! I want it MY WAY. I only want to be creative when things are how I LIKE IT TO BE ALL THE TIME."

I don't have the luxury of staying up till 4am every morning writing like I did when it was just me and Phoenix. I would sleep for a couple of hours, have morning time with Phoenix, breakfast, walk him to school and then go back to bed till it was time to get him from school and then go to work teaching music lessons.

I struggle with the creative during the day. I'm such a nighttime inspiration kind of a girl. But now I have four boys to care for, a husband I work with, house to clean, laundry to wash, etc. Even if I had an idea during the day, I'm not sure I'd have the time to act on it!

Conversations lately with my dear friend, Betsy Garmon, have opened my eyes to not letting this stage of my life beat the music and the words out of me. Betsy has really shown me that I need to learn how to work with the parameters I have in the here and now. That there IS a way to be a wife, a mom, a producer AND myself.

Betsy and I are going to start a project together. Every month or so we'll choose a word and create something around that word. Sure, it's been done before but LORD I am jumping at the chance to embrace this catalyst and run with it. Whether it's a song, a short story, a painting, I will post my interpretation of the word here and Betsy will do the same on her blog.

I'm feeling courageous. And when I start feeling courageous. Watch out. It's about to get crizazy up in here.

What about any of you? Got any advice? Feel the same way? I want to hear your thoughts, too, please.

"Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness. The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy; only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is." Willa Cather, The Song of the Lark, 1915

A Post. About stuff. Like I do.

This man is the love of my life. The simple fact that I am married to him proves that there is a God in heaven and that God loves me. At least, it proves it to me. Not that I needed more proof, but it's there all the same.

I'll pause here to give all of you time to roll your eyes at my sappiness.

Blah dee blah dee bloo.

Here is a picture of an advertisement for dental jewelry that I took when I was in a country far away known for it's excess and tall buildings and palm shaped islands:

There. Was that distraction enough? Isn't the above basically just a very very very fancy filling?

"Oh. You enjoy candy and aren't fond of brushing?"

"Yeah. I mean NO! This is my dental jewelry. I'm hip and with it."


(I am drumming my fingers looking around at the utter state of chaos that is my house. There are boxes everywhere and nothing is where it should be. The light falling on my dining room table has created a spike shaped shadow, an arrow of sorts, pointing to my Cherry Coke Zero can. I pick it up - empty. This is a sign that I need another Cherry Coke Zero. Actually, it's a sign that I need some water. Actually it's a sign that I need to stop typing boring random meaningless drivel and get back to my point.)

What was my point?

Oh yes.

Zack is in Miami right now, teaching a OneLight Workshop. He'll teach another one in Tampa on Thursday. Friday he'll fly home in time to have dinner, go to sleep and then, Saturday morning it will be Moving Day for us Arias'.

It's been nearly two months since we closed on our house and now, after a few revisions to it, i.e. adding a spiral staircase with a secret wardrobe entrance, knocking down a wall to make two rooms one room, making old fireplaces functional again, painting, etc., we get to actually LIVE there.

The wonderful thing about our new house is that it's 10 houses up the street from my favourite house from my childhood. The park is 3/10ths of a mile away, and our backyard backs up to the Decatur Cemetery, the same cemetery that I played in as a child.

When the realtor** was showing us the house for the first time, I stood in the backyard and looked around me and started crying.

"I've never had an emotional response to a house like this before."

"That means this is your house, then. I knew it, Zack knew it, we all knew it when we walked in."

"It's amazing. I played in this very same cemetery when I was a kid. I'd run around with the neighbourhood boys playing war. I gave myself the moniker "Major Idiot". The seed pod cone thingys off of the Magnolia trees made for great grenades. We'd hide behind tombstones, ripping the stems off of the cones with our teeth and launch them overhead. Now my kids are going to play here."


Getting old is great.

I do not fear it.

That's not true.

Once I get past 36 I think I'll be fine. But that is a bit of writing for another time.

I have to go now. I have a little Hawke to wake up from his nap so that we can pick Joshua and Phoenix up from bus stop and school. Then to get dry cleaning dropped off. Then mail from UPS Store picked up. Then to get Caleb from school. Then haircuts. Then homework. Then dinner. Then chores. Then showers. Then bedtime stories. Then more packing for me. And then, hopefully sleep.

Oddly enough I don't miss Zack because I miss the help, although his presence and help is sorely missed, I just miss him. He is my friend.

This is a good thing.

"A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him I may think aloud. I am arrived at last in the presence of a man so real and equal, that I may drop even those undermost garments of dissimulation, courtesy, and second thought, which men never put off, and may deal with him with the simplicity and wholeness with which one chemical atom meets another."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

**Funny side story: Our realtor, Derek, was the wedding coordinator for my first marriage. Through a series of events and running into each other he became Zack and my's realtor! I told Derek I hoped I had better luck with this house than I did with the marriage! Ba dum bump.

Analog vs. Digital

Zack and I have a friend named Billy. He's another one of those lifetime friends. The stuff we've been through together is kind of remarkable when I look back on it. But that's neither here nor there right now. That's a post for another time. Or a couple of chapters in a book. (wink wink nudge nudge)

Billy manages to blog even less frequently than I do, but when he does it's always good and his latest blog post brings up a question that I have been proverbially masticating* on for a while now.

Print or PDF? Analog over Digital? Book over E-Book? Go read Billy's post so that my rantings will make a bit more sense. ;-)

Will books go the way of vinyl records? Sure, still around, but for a small group of people who look upon them with nostalgia and collect them and say things like,

"There's just a warmth I get from them as opposed to listening to a CD or an mp3."

I, for one, find it strange. Who would rather read a book on a machine? Who wouldn't want to hold a BOOK? And don't give me the malarky about saving the environment or trees or what not. Go watch Tapped first and let's get that sorted before we start tackling the paper in books.

So. What do you think?

Are you more analog or digital?


Cowboy boots, Ice, Loretta, friends, etc.

Currently my ankles are crossed in my very-much-falling-apart-but-I-don't-care-because-hell-they-are-comfortable-and-so-therefore-I shall-walk-around-in-them cowboy boots as I sit here at my desk at Usedfilm Studios. Mumford and Sons are playing in the background and Zack and Dan are talking about a website that has pictures on it shot by a person who does a thing that is cool. You know, like they do. It is good to be back here in the studio.

Zack and I ventured out from our house today for the first time since Sunday morning. In case you aren't up to date on the nuances of Southern weather, we had a big ol' snow storm hit us late Sunday night. Up to a foot of snow in North Georgia. We had at least 5 inches here in Decatur and, for us, that's a big deal. On Twitter there were hashtags of #snowpocalypse and #hothtlanta and #SnowMG. Then, because we have about 20 salt trucks in the entire STATE all the roads became icy and criz-azy because the snow kinda melted just in time for everything to freeze again. I'm sure all you people out there who are used to snow would have a grand ol' laugh at the expressions of us perplexed Southerners as we attempt to navigate this foreign substance known as ice.

"ARGH! This stuff? I recognise this stuff. This belongs in a glass! To cool off a DRINK."

Check out this link for a laugh... Hothlanta

And this guy ice skating down Peachtree Street.


Loretta was calling my name, which is rare. Well, actually, it isn't rare, it's just that I've been ignoring her in order to take care of other things. The one time I actually had time on my hands to go play, however, she was covered in snow and far too cold. So I took a picture of her from the bathroom window.

The fact that I haven't played in Loretta in months and that I haven't touched my piano in nearly the same amount of time is another post altogether. Every time I begin to look in the direction of those topics I get all twitchy and sad and anxious.

One of my very best friends, Kara, from Vancouver, was here in town last week and flew out the DAY BEFORE we were snowed in. I won't go into the details of why Kara was here, only to say that it involves her health and an insurance company that directly correlates to an accident that Phoenix, she and I were in in June of 2006. An idiot woman decided to turn left in front of us, which is usually a fine idea, if you turn when you still have TIME. Not, "Let's see...that car is very nearly here so I shall turn NOW."
Needless to say, Kara sustained an injury to her jaw and the idiot lady insurance company has put her through the wringer for it.


I ended up explaining far more than I intended to.


Kara is just brilliant. She's the kind of friend who has stuck with me through EVERYTHING. She's the kind of friend who, because she is friends with me, gives me hope for myself. You know? Do you have a friend like that? Kind of like,

This person is wonderfully wonderful. This person is my friend. Voluntarily. This person has not once said, "You are too much. You are icky. Your stuff is too much." This could quite possibly mean that I am actually alright. I am, by default, not so bad.

Do you know what I mean?

I'm digressing.

While Kara was here she listened to me download everything I didn't know I needed to download until I did. A couple of questions from Kara and out it came.

Most of my stress came from the feeling of utter chaos in my head. So. Much. To. DO. Where to start? So, Kara, in her way, sat me down and made me prioritize and then mapped out 24 hours in a day and helped me figure out how to manage it. Without feeling like a failure.

I wept later on that night, after we had all gone to bed. It meant so much to me to have the fury and chaos in my head wrangled and roped in and branded onto a piece of paper. Now manageable. No longer running around wild up in there.

I'll let you know how it goes.

In other words, thanks to those of you who have written to know why I haven't been blogging. The answer is simply that I've been too depressed and overwhelmed and haven't felt that I had anything worth saying. That and because when I do have time to write it's on for the book I'm working on.

Peace. Peace. Peace. Peace with myself. Perfectionism will be the undoing of me if I don't learn how to be kind to myself.

In other other words I love my Zack Arias. The man drives me INSANE sometimes but he still melts me when he walks into a room and that, my friends, is saying something.

"The human story does not always unfold like a mathematical calculation on the principle that two and two make four. Sometimes in life they make five or minus three; and sometimes the blackboard topples down in the middle of the sum and leaves the class in disorder and the pedagogue with a black eye."

Winston Churchill

Found: Christmas Songs (a repeat from last year...)

The following post was originally written last year. I've received a few requests for these songs again so I thought I'd dust this one off!

My sister-in-law, Ginger*, asked me in an email the other day if I had recorded any Christmas songs.

At first I thought..."" and then I remembered, "...WAIT. YES. I have recorded some songs!"

I was a part of the Peachtree Presbyterian Christmas album in 2007 that the musicians there did to benefit Safehouse Outreach Atlanta. My old drummer, Noah Alexander, used to be their main sound guy dude and I think I'm not remiss in saying that he put it all together. He's a good one that Noah.

I wish he wasn't in L.A. playing with this band. That's not true. I am happy for him. No I am not. Yes I am. No I am not. Yes I am.

Anyway. I recorded my versions of Drummer Boy, What Child Is This and a song I wrote, Magi. (I'll type the words out below in case you care to know what exactly I'm singing.)

So, you can have them for free if you want.

Or, if you really want to be really awesome, you could DONATE a little sumthin' sumthin' to help them out. They didn't ask me to do this, but if you did, you would rock. A lot. Like the Casbah.

What Child Is This


Drummer Boy


Oh we saw it
From far away
Wisely sought it
To see what made
The glow
And why the sky was so lit up.
Lord knows something must be up.

Moving quickly
Through the night
Ever onward
To see the sight
The glow
And why the sky was so lit up
Lord knows something must be up

A starlight baby boy
And shepherds with flocks
Angels are humming in lovely frocks
Waiting to enter onto the scene
Watching us travel
Watching us travel

Stars will often
Light a way
Leave you breathless
A cause to praise
The glow
And why the sky was so lit up
Lord knows something must be up


He is like no other child I've seen
He is like no other child I've seen
He is like no other child I've seen
He is like no other King I've seen


There you have it, friends. Hope you like them. More importantly, though, I hope you have the sort of peace that is beyond understanding, love unlimitless and joy everlasting as we enter into this season of remembering who these songs were written for in the first place.


*Ginger is a writer, you can check out her stuff at because she rocks at what she does.

Mystery Reader + Joshua = Randolph the Reindeer

Not Rudolph.


I was the Mystery Reader for Joshua's kindergarten class this morning.

It's a lovely concept. I was the Mystery Reader for Phoenix back when he was in kindergarten.  Which feels like it was just yesterday.  I can't believe he's in the 4th grade now.

I digress.

The day before you are to read to the class, you send in three clues about yourself. Mine were:

am a musician and I love to write songs.

I am the only girl in a house full of boys!

I want to learn how to fly an airplane.

I arrived at the classroom at 10:30am on the nose and knocked on the door and a chorus of little voices sang out,

"Come in!"

When I walked though the door I saw darling little people all squirming and wiggling trying to see who I was.

"It's my other mommy!", I heard Joshua yell and he jumped up and ran over and almost knocked me down with the force of his hug.  I'm not going to lie, I teared up at that.

"She makes silly faces and says funny voices!", he yelled, "it's awesome!"

"Hi everyone! I'm Meghan. You can call me Ms. Meg or Meg or Meghan or Ms. Meghan or, in a pinch, Gorgeous, if you forget my real name." This was lost on the students but the teachers in the room chuckled.

"Fortunately for me I MAKE funny faces, I don't have a silly face, at least I hope not; and I MAKE silly voices, I don't actually have a silly voice. I am here to read you the story of Olive, a little dog, who helps out Santa!"

I held up the book I brought, "Would you like to hear it?"


"Okay then!  Here we go!"

I proceeded to read them the story of Olive, the dog, who overhears the "Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer" song on the radio.  When she hears the part, "All of the other reindeer", she gets confused because SHE thinks it's saying, "Olive, the other reindeer."

This concept was lost on the children but for one kid, who, when I read that little bit, yelled out,

"That's CAH-RAZY! 'All of the other reindeer' and her name is 'Olive' and 'ALL OF' and 'OLIVE' sound the SAME!"

He's an adorable kid, with the kind of face that, when you look at it, you can already see him at 45.  You know what I mean?  Some kids are like that.  He's one of them.  Too cute.

I pointed out funny little moments in the illustrations like the fact that, while Olive is on a bus to the North Pole, there is a penguin hanging out on the side of the road.

"That guy, right there?  He is WAY lost. Penguins don't live in the North Pole, they live in the South Pole."

A little boy piped up, "Christmas penguins live in the North Pole!"

How could I argue with that?

By the time Santa Claus entered the story a forest of little hands shot up in the air,

"I have a question!"

"I have a question, tooooo!"


I pointed to one little boy behind Joshua who's longing to ask his question had caused him to contort his body in a Bikram yoga like position.

"Yes?  What is your question?"

"I saw Santa Claus one time when I was a baby."

Ah, the classic 5 year old I-have-a-question-no-you-don't-it's-really-a-statement phenomenon.

I called on a little girl who was staring at me with longing.

"How about you? Do you have a question?"

"I saw Santa Claus one time, too, at the mall, but I was too scared to go see him 'cause I was scared."

This "I have a question no really it's a statement" business went on until, somehow, we ended up on the subject of birds and flying and then one boy shouted out that he had a chicken.

"Chickens can't fly though, really.",  I said. "They can only get a little ways off of the ground."

"It can get on our roof!", he crowed (pun intended).

"REALLY?  Then maybe you have eggs on your roof!"

That flummoxed him.  He stared at me with an expression of horror at the thought that there might be eggs on his roof.

I finished the story and then led them all in the Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer song, complete with all of the "Like a lightbulb, like Monopoly, etc." bits.

I made my goodbyes and slipped out, with the teacher mouthing, "Thank you." I mouthed back, "No, thank YOU."

Because truly it was so much fun.  I love little ones.  And Joshua's face, beaming up at me, melted my heart.

Tonight, at dinner, as we went through our "best part and worst part" of our day we talked about how I read to Joshua's class.

"What story did Meghan read, Joshua?", Zack inquired.

Joshua's eyes darted to me, then back to Zack.

"Uh. Um.  It's a story about reindeer."

"Yes, but what KIND of reindeer?", I hinted, winking at him.

"Randolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer!"

"Randolph?", the whole table started laughing.

Oh well.  He might not have comprehended it all that much but at least Joshua seemed to enjoy it!

A ball of fluff, a new house and a dirty kitchen...

I sat down to write and everything I wanted to write about suddenly became very shy and decided to hide.

What to say?  I am writing, just not here.  I'm trying to write a book.

It's hard work writing a book.  Well, at least the kind that I WANT to write.  I suppose one could sit down and write something like,

"Once there was a big ball of fluff.  It lived somewhere in South Georgia, on the floor of a 1940's bungalow, in between the living room drapes and the wall. A wall, you might care to know, that was painted the most atrocious shade of mauve one has ever seen."

This story about fluff could be stretched out into chapters and then put into book format and - Ta Da! There it would be.  A book. About fluff.

Anyway.  I'm trying to write a book that isn't full of fluff.  Rather one that is substantially more substantial than fluff and it's kicking my butt.


I have good news!

Zack and I, as of Friday, December 3rd, became the proud owners of a 100 year old house here in the City of Decatur.  She's gorgeous and we can't wait to fill her with all manner of various wonderfulnessesses that are US. You know how it goes. Being renters there's only so much one can do. So it's down with icky awful yellow wallpaper with icky awful flowers.  It's away with bad pink paint colour in the dining room. It's up with dress patterns and sheet music! Globes and books! Horatio the deer head above the living room mantel! Zack and I have been joking about somehow procuring the hind end of a deer and mounting THAT above the mantel and Horatio in our room which is on the other side of the fireplace. The idea of that sends us into fits of laughter.  ;-)

Currently I am trying to avoid the kitchen. Here, in our rental house. An hour ago we said goodbye to a few dear friends that I invited over to help us celebrate Zack and his birthday today.  I made homemade Beef Stroganoff and we had White Chocolate Banana Cream Pie from the Buckhead Diner (which the getting of that is a story in and of itself as while I was waiting for the restaurant to get it ready, Hawke ran around to each table trying to high-five and fist bump everyone who was dining...) and there was wine and beer and much much much laughing.  We're a silly bunch.  All that to say the kitchen is ridiculous.

Why am I writing such drivel?

I remember.  This house.  That we have lived in for over two years.  This house is the reason that Zack and I eloped in July of 2008 instead of waiting for a proper wedding in October 2008 instead. This house is where our lives came together into the melding of families and this house is where Hawke was literally born, upstairs on the landing next to the bathroom and down the hall from our bedroom in an inflatable tub while I imagined I was a squid. ;-) This lovely little house has housed a lot of living and for that I am grateful.

I need to go clean that stupid kitchen.  Zack said that I shouldn't, that it can wait until morning but I despise coming down to a dirty kitchen. So off I go.  But I'll be back.  I'll not wait so long to write again.

I promise. I've something brewing in my head I want your opinion on internetz, so get ready!

Has it really been this long?

I cannot believe so much time has passed.

So much life is happening right now that I can't keep up with it all.

Phoenix turns 10 years old tomorrow and then we leave for New York on Saturday.  I shall try to catch you up, for those who care to know, while I'm there.  I have a feeling that being away from all the things I have to do will give me a chance to write.

Here's hoping.

And hoping all is well with you in your corners of the world.

Do you know the Muffin Man?

Good afternoon, gentle readers.

(I know,  there I go with the gentle readers again.  Blame Mark Sam Twain Clemens. If he wasn't so darn inspiring.)

I am writing these words from a flat in London, on Drury Lane, sitting at a little round table, by an open window that has long, floor length curtains that are currently gently blowing in the breeze. I have a cup of tea to my left, a sleeping baby in the bedroom and a husband off teaching 15 people something he is very, very fervent about - the craft of photography.

I do wish my sisters were here because having my sisters around makes everything instantly one hundred times better simply because.

You know what I taught myself today?  That putting in one too many bottles of water into a shopping basket, that is hanging on the handle of one's stroller/pram will cause it to topple over backwards.  This will send the contents of one's shopping basket rolling every which way, might even cause one to shriek loudly so that anyone within 20 feet will stop and stare and will cause one's baby to yell "UH OH!" and start laughing hysterically.

Yes, this happened to me.  In a Sainsbury's on High Holborn and Kingsway and when I left one poor fellow was still trying to get loose blueberries out from underneath where the soups are kept.


I sat for a while remembering the Twin Towers and shaking my head over all of the nonsense in media right now about the crazy old pastor in Florida.  Such a surreal thing to think that a man could hold such sway, hmmm?  Had he been ignored in the first place, had the media not taken his bait, none of this would be such an issue!



This blog post is about as boring as they come.  I'm going to stop now and get to writing some other stuff over here in this other place that I have on this laptop.

I hope everyone is well.

Any recommendations of places to see and things to do while I'm here?  This is my first time and I'd love some insight.

On a scale of 1 to Proverbs 31 woman...

...I am hovering somewhere around...


That is, if the number 31 meant BEST. Like going to 11.

Which I know it doesn't work that way, the numbers are supposedly supposed to numerically number the many wise wisdoms of Solomon.

I had a lot of fun with that sentence just now.

What I want to know is...

When his wife read this, assuming that she could read given her station and such in life, did she concur?

"Let's see...worth is far above jewels, yes that's nice, I like that...good not evil...yes, true too, well, there WAS that time I stuck my cold feet on your back but that wasn't really EVIL evil...(reading) Looks for wool and flax? It's been a while, you know I am really not fond of the feel of wool, it makes my skin crawl, I told you this.... Aw! Thanks for the shout out about the vineyard, babe. I wasn't sure it was going to work but it's come along quite well..."


I found a website where the different verses were broken down into what they mean in single words and here is what a description of the Proverbs 31 woman looks like:

Works Joyfully
Goes the extra mile to get the best goods
Good with money
Manages her home
God fearing

Um. *raises hand* How many of you ladies look at that and think, "I need a drink."


Yeah, me neither.

I think I can say that I have just a few of those attributes. Sometimes. But never, NEVER at the same time. For instance, I don't think that I have ever been poised and elegant in my life. I tried once and I'm pretty sure I fell down.

My friend, Jessica Tilley-Hodgman, wakes up every morning and BAM is already poised and elegant. What am I even saying? She prolly sleeps poised and elegantly too. ;-) She'd make the perfect sleeping princess for a prince to find and lay a wet one on her. And by wet one I mean a kiss, not a wet WIPE. Although now I'm cracking up at the mental image of a prince gazing down at his beautiful princess, whilst birds and small rodents and a male and female deer, who have nothing better to do, watch as he gently lays a wet one/wipe over her face..or maybe not, maybe not her face, maybe he's polite and just drapes it over her knee...the music swells...

But I digress.

More than digress, that wasn't a rabbit trail, that was a...mole hill. We all just got stuck under a rock or something.


My point to this WHOLE POST was to say that I am actually okay with being a Proverbs 24 woman at the moment. There are rare moments where I feel like I'm even attaining say, 30.5 and I look around and my house is picked up and I'm dressed in something lovely and I have make-up on AND shaved legs and pits and my kids are angelic and the laundry is in process (never done, I have learned. It will never be done, it's just a clothes purgatory, a never ending story of cotton, linen, rayon and other synthetic fibers forever...) and emails are caught up on and I've played the piano or the guitar and made Zack laugh and dinner is cooking and just everything feels marvelous for about 2 whole minutes.

I do wish old Solomon had thought to put in stuff like a sense of humour,

"Wittiness and silly voices frequently pour forth from her mouth,
Her children laugh at her antics and rise up and call her hysterical."

Or that he mentioned something about her being spontaneous and building a fire in 90 degree weather.

He could've written something like,

"She is spontaneous and joyful, and doesn't let stuff get all swirly in her head and make her feel like a crazy person with trying to get it all done AND be an awesome mom and wife...and she...still fears the Lord blesses the blessings and stuff..."

He'd make it much more succinct and to the point.

Blah dee bloo.

I wonder if someone read that chapter aloud to her, maybe it was Solomon himself and she thought,

"I appreciate the sentiment but damn that's a lot to live up to."

Did she exist? Or was "she" merely the ideal to attain?

I dunno. I do know that I do want to be all of those things. And I do want to be at least 5 of those characteristics at the same time sometimes.

I'm working on it.

So...anyone with me on this? Or are the internet crickets chirping and all of you are suddenly remembering that thing you gotta go do?


I think this Chesterton quote is hilarious...

"Variability is one of the virtues of a woman. It avoids the crude requirement of polygamy. So long as you have one good wife you are sure to have a spiritual harem." ~ G.K. Chesterton, Alarms and Discursions, 1910

Cinema Eyes

Just thought I'd share with you the first recording I ever made. I recorded the vocals in a closet that held all of our church's sound equipment. My friend, Billy, and I hung up rugs to help muffle the noise in there. Needless to say I sneezed a lot.

Cinema Eyes is the first song off of the Cinema Eyes EP that I released back in 2005.

A lifetime ago. Or five years. Another life ago. So much has changed since then.

Click to listen to it here

The music I'm writing now is worlds different, at least, it seems so to me. Which makes sense given the different sort of world I live in these days.

And yes, I'm writing music now.

We're on speaking terms again, my music and I. We're still shy around each other, awkward in conversation, not sure what to do with our hands but we're trying and that is a very very very good thing.

"I sing like I feel." ~ Ella Fitzgerald