Mj Pettengill

How odd was this swirling of love and anticipation—these tears fueled by joy.

It is up to us to reach down beyond those creaking bones and illuminate previously unseen and powerless souls.

If the choice is between horses, cows, or sisters, the cows are the audience of choice because they are polite.

Unearthing and transmuting historical trauma and ancestral wounds is a way back to the light. The journey is beyond reflective.

My instincts were to frown and wish away those pests, those greedy hoodlums. But then I realized that blue jays are not bad.

We continue to pass along the grief and pain of those before us, and in time, forget their origins. We inherit their losses.

I slid into the role of making the most incredible piccalilli east of the Mississippi River.

The sphere of mothers and daughters is much broader, with more possibilities of getting lost.

These flames are a gift bestowed upon me from Hestia, the goddess of the hearth and its fires.

In this life, you provided many valuable lessons.

No star is lost. It is we who have gone astray. We are finding our way home.

I no longer rely on princes, and frogs have more potential than what we learned in myths. They earned my respect in a much different manner.

It is time to reawaken all that is imaginable and buried deep in the bones of the land.

I wouldn’t have imagined that along with other volunteers at the food pantry, I would be filling out an order for my daughter.

I returned to my rocking chair and sat on the back deck in my flannel nightgown until I felt like it.

To me, especially after writing them into my life, crows are reassuring, wise, and a good omen.

By reaching back to the child within, grasping her hand, and pulling her into a full embrace, I had discovered honest writing at its best.

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