Mj Pettengill

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

This is an opportunity for folks to stop in and get signed copies of books in the Etched in Granite Historical Fiction Series.

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.

I have a little studio in the woods. I love this space.

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

If you can, go way back, even back into the womb, before coming into the world, into the light. Can you still see in the dark?

Left unguarded, we have come perilously close to losing each other. With it comes the danger of loss of self. We must remain rooted in...

Blogs... I usually write the first draft, run it through my editing software, re-read it a few times (once aloud), and then post it. The...

This time it’s different. Whenever I experience the shift of one season into the next, there is often an aspect of longing. The...

I have learned to appreciate all phases of that which was once thriving and full of life.

Within the first moment of meditation, I heard a rustling in the leaves.

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

I’m married to the land and creatures that share this space, drifting in and out, leaving footprints behind.

Follow the ferns into the ancient past, the untold stories of the land.

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.

It's all about remembering our instincts and long-forgotten wild ways.

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

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.