November's Quiet Blessing...
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 "Remembering Harry" (Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
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The Visitor Beneath the Pines...
"The Visitor Beneath the Pines" (Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
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A Woodland Parable of November
Each year, on the last Thursday of November, a feast appears in the clearing by the old cedar fence deep in the pines. No one sees it arrive. No footprints mark the snow. Yet there it rests: a long table of cedar boughs and birch peel, laid with roasted vegetables, golden cornbread, late-season berries, and a steaming centerpiece of wild grains and herbs. Candles flicker though no breeze stirs the air, and even the birds grow quiet as if holding a breath.
The villagers nearby say the feast is not meant for them alone—but for all beings, great and small. Deer nibble at the edges. Owls blink thoughtfully from their hidden perches. Even the earth itself seems to pause in reverence. And then, just before moonrise, a figure emerges from the dark of the old-growth pines.
Tall and slender, cloaked in a garment of woven moss and evergreen fronds, he moves like wind through still water. His hair is silver like first frost, and his eyes—deep amber—glow with a warmth both ancient and tender. Some say they are like embers, long-smoldering, almost ready to speak.
He is called by many names, whispered among hushed voices: the Pine Watcher. The Rememberer. The Quiet One. Yet the oldest name—rarely spoken but always known—is Father Gratitude.
Once, long ago, he was a boy named Elias, the youngest son of a family who lived in a cabin near this very clearing. They were known for their kindness, for lighting lanterns for travelers and setting an extra place at their holiday table each November—for wanderers, for neighbors, for lonely souls, and for the wild creatures of the wood.
But one winter, the boy was lost in a sudden storm. The family called his name into the night, left lanterns burning in every window, and set the feast untouched… waiting. Weeks passed. Snow covered footprints. The family moved. The land returned to silence.
But the feast continued.
For beyond their knowing, the boy had been welcomed into the deeper forest—where time thins, where trees remember, and where sorrow becomes wisdom. He did not become lost. He became eternal.
And so, each year, as snow settles and candles glow, Father Gratitude returns. He kneels—not to eat, but to listen. To the rustle of feathers. To the quiet breath of deer. To the hum of the earth beneath snow. And to the fading echoes of all who once sat here in love.
By dawn, the meal is gone—shared. The candles have burned low. The snow bears not footprints, but softened impressions of knees and hands: a gesture of blessing for all.
Some say, if you enter that clearing with a pinecone, a poem, or a small note of thanks, you might feel a gentle warmth brush your shoulder—light as breath. Not unsettling, but deeply comforting.
A reminder.
That gratitude is a feast.
That blessings multiply when shared.
And that the earth remembers what we honor.
“Let us give thanks for unknown blessings already on their way.” ~Native American Proverb
~Wylddane
Each year, on the last Thursday of November, a feast appears in the clearing by the old cedar fence deep in the pines. No one sees it arrive. No footprints mark the snow. Yet there it rests: a long table of cedar boughs and birch peel, laid with roasted vegetables, golden cornbread, late-season berries, and a steaming centerpiece of wild grains and herbs. Candles flicker though no breeze stirs the air, and even the birds grow quiet as if holding a breath.
The villagers nearby say the feast is not meant for them alone—but for all beings, great and small. Deer nibble at the edges. Owls blink thoughtfully from their hidden perches. Even the earth itself seems to pause in reverence. And then, just before moonrise, a figure emerges from the dark of the old-growth pines.
Tall and slender, cloaked in a garment of woven moss and evergreen fronds, he moves like wind through still water. His hair is silver like first frost, and his eyes—deep amber—glow with a warmth both ancient and tender. Some say they are like embers, long-smoldering, almost ready to speak.
He is called by many names, whispered among hushed voices: the Pine Watcher. The Rememberer. The Quiet One. Yet the oldest name—rarely spoken but always known—is Father Gratitude.
Once, long ago, he was a boy named Elias, the youngest son of a family who lived in a cabin near this very clearing. They were known for their kindness, for lighting lanterns for travelers and setting an extra place at their holiday table each November—for wanderers, for neighbors, for lonely souls, and for the wild creatures of the wood.
But one winter, the boy was lost in a sudden storm. The family called his name into the night, left lanterns burning in every window, and set the feast untouched… waiting. Weeks passed. Snow covered footprints. The family moved. The land returned to silence.
But the feast continued.
For beyond their knowing, the boy had been welcomed into the deeper forest—where time thins, where trees remember, and where sorrow becomes wisdom. He did not become lost. He became eternal.
And so, each year, as snow settles and candles glow, Father Gratitude returns. He kneels—not to eat, but to listen. To the rustle of feathers. To the quiet breath of deer. To the hum of the earth beneath snow. And to the fading echoes of all who once sat here in love.
By dawn, the meal is gone—shared. The candles have burned low. The snow bears not footprints, but softened impressions of knees and hands: a gesture of blessing for all.
Some say, if you enter that clearing with a pinecone, a poem, or a small note of thanks, you might feel a gentle warmth brush your shoulder—light as breath. Not unsettling, but deeply comforting.
A reminder.
That gratitude is a feast.
That blessings multiply when shared.
And that the earth remembers what we honor.
“Let us give thanks for unknown blessings already on their way.” ~Native American Proverb
~Wylddane