Mj Pettengill

Buried deep in the bones of the earth, in dusty, misplaced archives, and scribbled in faded, yellowed diaries, their stories exist.

There was light there, in the homeland of old stories, but not enough. I had been there too long.

Where was God when it happened?

Reaching into the corners of uncertain blackness, I saw the dimmest light, that of a dying candle. It was enough to almost blind me.

That sacred site is an archetypal and genealogical vault filled with memories intended to be forgotten...

Her dress was nothin’ more than a collection of scraps held together by a thread that was about to let go.

I wasn’t the boy they wanted me to become. I was still me, one of them.

I was forgotten before the ink dried; there would be no wastin’ of tears.

I come before You, meek and lowly in heart...

What I saw didn’t make sense. I could have sworn that she walked straight into the water, nearly up to her waist. My heart pounded.

That was when I knew that we had to find a way to get music at the Farm.

However, in grace, she rose up against her punishers, keepin’ whole her spirit and pure her heart.

From the bosom of the devastated earth, a voice goes up with our own. It says, "Disarm, Disarm!"

The difference between us was that I found comfort in the heart of a tree while he went deep into a cave.

Throughout time, in many dire settings, I have learned that as divided as they appeared to be, people were often bound by their afflictions.

Today, many are intrigued, longing for more information surrounding the history of mass burial grounds in New York City, across the country

Earlier, I would have been captivated by the beauty of the tall fir trees on the shores, or the lighthouse and small cottages...

We must rethink this way of being so that we may recover wholeness and well-being in our boys turned men.

Poverty is not limited to one’s socioeconomic status; it is often a predicament of the soul as well. —MjP

The wolf became an unexpected ally.