October 28, 2014


Taking a break from churning the beurre (read: school work), I sit window-side in my rocking chair in my new bedroom in St. Boniface to take in the first cold winds of winter. Cold air blasts my insanely pretty and hardy potted begonias while I contemplate life as I now know it. I am ten bloody illustrations of precise muscle movements of the hand and one lonesome Table of Contents away from completing my first of six albums for school. Daily Life Activites, you can beat it. Wahooo! Cannot express the true depth and breadth of my joy over this near completion. Into abstract construction paper art and scented cotton ball territory I go hi ho. Jen, if you are reading this, can I take a stroll through your impressive essential oil library? Sensory overload, here I come.

Weird, je sais. Training to become a teacher of Montessori is the strangest and most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me academically. Wise old Maria Montessori knew a thing or two. Her philosophy on the education of little children remains as relevant as ever. Lessons gleaned from her writing worm their way into my center and I am affirmed over and over by the new way my hands are learning to speak. I am in this for life.

Today I went to visit the school where I will be working for the duration of my practicum. Upon arrival in full winter cyclist armor with blinking lights et al, I was swarmed by happy little faces at the door begging for information. WHAT IS YOUR NAME? I AM MISS MEG, RHYMES WITH EGG (there is another Megan on location, thus Meg it is). New territory to pioneer.

My first assignment for the work placement is to sit in complete silence and simply observe the patterns of children at work for two eight hour shifts. Essentially this means to become invisible and one with the fabric of the environment. No speaking, no movement. None. How ever will I keep the words from tumbling out as those beautiful creatures first swarm with questions of curiosity? The sparks in my eyes remind me there are other ways to communicate. Instantly, I felt the river of my soul begin to fill this morning after quite some time of running dry. There was one little creature who asked me with such earnest, WHEN WILL I SEE YOU AGAIN? that I nearly wept with thanksgiving when I was able to answer him, IN ONE WEEK!

Change is the only constant.

Jenn Grant's 'Mauve' has been a sweet, musical salve to my soul of late. Here is a line she sings so beautifully. When I hear her melody over and over in my head as I cruise from point A to B on my trusty Mercier, I rest assured that I am where I am meant to be.

Heartache let it go / Let it go / You are where you're meant to be / Heartache let it go/ Let it go/ You are meant to be free

Back to work I go hi ho. No rest for the wicked. Winter, welcome back you damn sly fox. Not sure how I feel about your fierce return, thus silence and stillness will have to suffice. Pictured above, an old photograph shot in December of 2011, at the tail end of my time in Montreal. One steady boot in Manitoba's winter in the bush near the King's palace, one foot in an old tiny bedroom with walls that read over and over: THE FUTURE IS NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW. Whenever power lines present themselves in my photo work, I am always pleased with their dissection of space in the composition. This shot is no different. Some day, I will live in a tree stand. No question there.

Adieu // MP


  1. My oils are your oils, darling. ps. You are where you're meant to be.

  2. THIS makes me very happy. MEG. You're exactly where you're meant to be. Praise be!