Mj Pettengill

I admired the courage of the wayward girl, the one who left snow angels in our winter garden.

As time marches on, it is clear that respecting and honoring our elders has waned into non-existence.

May we always care about the truth. And may we not allow fear to lead the way.

...bringing me home to Cold River.

It isn’t just a sweater; it’s the shelter of him—my father—his care and safety enveloping me as if I were a little girl again.

...may this food provide strength and energy for our tired limbs and good thoughts for our weary minds...

They weren’t long letters, just brief newsy accounts from the home front. It was about that lifeline, that classic archetype of mother...

We were so proud to be Americans. We had an idea of who we were. We had each others’ backs.

We will find each other again and again, suspended between the wildness of Heaven and Earth...

The primary source of collective and individual trauma related to the County Farm is rooted in profound unawareness.

Unlike the traditional auction, the pauper was sold to the lowest bidder.

I had never played for such a vast and diverse audience—on both sides of the fence—it mattered not that they were, in fact, dead.

It is unnecessary to wait for what we perceive as the perfect opportunity or the right conditions.

We tend to go with the flow but have no idea where the river leads.

An egg about to crack open becomes a favorite moment.

Imagine sitting in the middle of a field of anonymous graves with nothing to go on but intuition.

The trees help old souls reach out to me, begging for their stories to be told. Until that time, it is they who need consoling.

I stood and watched until Death’s cart was out of sight. I was not afraid. I could not say what I felt, but it was not fear.


"As I Began to Love Myself" —Poem by Kim and Alison McMillen
 (Falsely attributed to Charlie Chaplin)

We need not vanish in pale shadows, alienated from our essence. To be silenced, overlooked, or crushed leads to an uncertain death.