Mj Pettengill

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.

When we finally summon the courage to view our past, we may awaken from our troubled dreams.

I reached towards the wreckage of my whole existence.

The practice of auctioning the poor is a form of indentured servitude, a custom in this country that dates back to the first settlers...

You can be a strong force within yourself, family, and community without raising an angry fist.

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?

Layers of rot and decay became raw—a rich scent of being—an invitation to pause and feel the silken grit all the way through to the bone.

One of the most essential elements of these healing gifts has been stitched into a higher awareness of my sense of belonging.

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

As we stumble along unfamiliar terrain, we begin to understand that we are not searching for a pot of gold. We are here for the rainbow.

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

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...

We seemed to have lost our ground, our firm footing in the dirt that we used to know.

More stories are to be told as words flow downstream, not to be missed or forgotten.

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