Mj Pettengill

To the pretty frogs, dragonflies, birds, fish, beavers, flowers, rivers, bees, and swamps, I am sorry.

Before Death’s final blow, she was but a flower that never faded, showin’ me the fierceness of a mother’s love.

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

We cannot heal what we are unwilling to look at or afraid to know.

My father had been dying for so long, that letting go was bittersweet.

No selfies or social media posts were available for drumming up prayers or GoFundMe platforms to offer financial support.

We were not rich, but we were content, imperfect, and lovingly frayed around the edges.

Alchemy [ al-kuh-mee ] Any magical power or process that transmutes a common substance, usually of little value, into a great deal of sense.

The very ancient ones are our guides. It is up to us to awaken to them.

Before Death’s final blow, she was but a flower that never faded, showin’ me the fierceness of a mother’s love.

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.