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  • Writer's pictureMj Pettengill

The Proverbial Pathway

Another Day


At the break of day when I do not feel fruitful, I go into the woods to sing. I sit on the Prayer Rock to witness the immeasurable canvas sprawled before me, touched by the paintbrush of creation. The sun beckons to all upturned faces, living on the margins of winter, anticipating spring and the promise of rebirth. I revel in cosmic chaos—the pulsation of sound amplified by miracles orchestrated in the wind, bird, and brook songs (accompanied by the rattling of last season’s leaves that cling tightly to the branches in the Ash Grove, awaiting new growth). I look to where the anxious mountains melt away the last traces of snow where my friend, the hawk, circles above.

I wander down the proverbial pathway, lingering before the roses, exposed yet rooted in love, as they stand naked, desperate for the return of their aromatic blooms to cover their vulnerability. Intoxicated by their scent, reckless in their presence, and wildly imperfect, I am willing to bleed. Further down the pathway, the remnants of milkweeds – the host plant for Monarchs and others – sway tenderly in the wind releasing the last few silky white strands and transporting papery brown seeds. I watch them float indecisively to the opposite slope. Before it becomes a bit of a marsh, I head towards the spring pond that exists long enough for peepers to come out and sing and lay eggs for future prosperity. Predictably, the chorus halts as I approach. I catch a glimpse of an olive green frog – a possible prince during the essence of my becoming – before he disappears under the shelter of a faded bouquet of oak and maple leaves that float on the surface. A smile emerges from within as I spot at least a thousand eggs in various clumps knowing that soon it will be tadpole bliss. I then sit on a mossy stump beside the twin trunks of two immense trees which shelter life amongst gnarled, trailing roots. The trees embrace, knowing that a love like this is rare and only threatened by the woodsman’s ax. I think if I were a tree, I would want this, and if I were a small creature, I would live somewhere within. To bathe in the woods is to draw strength from Nature’s womb. The milk of Our Mother nourishes my creative soul. So another day ends, and another moon rises.

Mj-Generated © 2023 Daisyfields Press

The Woods, Mj Pettengill   (Mj-Generated)
The Woods, Mj Pettengill (Mj-Generated)

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