Mj Pettengill

Until meeting Samuel, I was unaware that I had left a vital part of my soul in the heart of that tree.

I find my way to the truth. It’s there; it waits patiently for relief from rage left unexpressed.

With Abigail, I shared gratitude when my father gave me this doll. And like Abigail, my doll meant more after my father’s passing.

It was oddly festive for such an unfortunate event.

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

There wasn’t a better place for untanglin’ thoughts and bein’ amongst clouds.

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

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

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.

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

...bringing me home to Cold River.

If you are around the village over the weekend, please stop in.

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

“I am with child.” My temples pounded. All strength was gone.

It is time to rest, to reflect on the past season, find the creative, dark womb, and curl up beside the fire.

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.