"There is no greater gift we can offer the world than becoming a place where another being feels safe."

This morning dawned beneath a veil of smoke.

The great forests to our north are burning, and even here, many miles away, the fires have found us. Yesterday the air quality reached hazardous levels. This morning it is a little better, though still unhealthy. The sunlight arrives softened and subdued, as though the day itself is breathing carefully.

It has been a difficult summer. Weeks of relentless heat. Humidity that wrapped itself around every afternoon. Now the smoke. It would be easy to let disappointment settle into the heart.

Instead, I reach for my coffee.

Outside my window, on the deck, a familiar visitor is sleeping.

A week ago, when I first photographed him, he had curled up beside the little potted spruce. Today he has chosen the rug I placed on the deck. A few moments ago I watched him stretch with that luxurious, full-bodied stretch only a cat can manage, yawn toward the morning sky, circle once, and settle back into sleep.

Watching him, I find myself smiling.

Cats do not sleep where they feel threatened. Sleep is their most vulnerable state. A stray—or perhaps simply a wandering neighborhood cat—chooses a place only after deciding it is safe. His remarkable senses have already told him everything he needs to know. He knows the rhythms of this little cottage. He recognizes familiar scents. He knows that here, no one will chase him away.

Some traditions say that a cat who chooses your home brings good fortune. Others believe cats stand quiet watch against unseen troubles, their gentle presence carrying peace and healing wherever they rest.

Whether or not such legends are literally true almost doesn't matter.

Their deeper truth certainly is.

Every one of us longs for a place where we can finally let down our guard.

A place where we no longer have to be vigilant.

A place where we can simply rest.

Perhaps that is one of life's quiet callings—not merely to find such places ourselves, but to become them.

To become someone whose presence allows another heart to relax.

Someone whose words leave room for hope.

Someone whose kindness says, "You are safe here."

As I watch my sleeping companion, I wonder about his story.

Does he belong to someone nearby?

Is he truly homeless?

Where does he wander on the days he doesn't visit?

Will time slowly answer these questions?

I don't know.

For now, it is enough that our paths cross.

Outside, the leaves flutter gently despite the smoky air. Inside, classical music drifts softly through the wee cottage. My coffee has grown just a little cooler, but no less satisfying.

The world is imperfect this morning.
Perhaps it always has been.

Yet this day still arrives carrying its own quiet blessings.

Gratitude is not pretending that the smoke isn't there.

It is remembering that even through the haze, morning still comes.

It is noticing the music.
Savoring the coffee.
Watching a trusting cat sleep peacefully on the deck.

And allowing that simple, ordinary moment to remind us that goodness still finds its way into the world, often quietly, one gentle breath at a time.

Today, may we not wait for perfect circumstances before giving thanks.

May we become places of refuge for one another.
​
And may our hearts, like my little visitor outside, discover moments when they feel safe enough to simply rest.

~Wylddane

"Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it."
~Norman Maclean

This morning, another July day begins beneath a sky already promising heat. Even before sunrise has fully surrendered to morning, the air carries that familiar heaviness that speaks of humidity, of shimmering afternoons, and of seeking shade wherever it can be found. Inside the wee cottage, however, there is only quiet comfort. The air conditioner hums softly in the background. A mug of fresh coffee warms my hands. Classical music drifts gently through the room like sunlight through pine branches.

And somehow, without intending it, I find myself visiting another July.

Not yesterday.
Not last year.
But a summer from long ago.

As children, we measured our days not by clocks but by the position of the sun. Morning belonged to bicycles and adventures. Afternoon belonged to the lake.

Although my parents had their own beautiful sandy beach, the place that always called to us was the beach at the south end of the lake, owned by the family of one of my closest friends. Out beyond the shoreline floated an old wooden raft, anchored in the deeper water. We swam to it almost every day. We dove from it, sprawled across its weathered boards, laughed until our sides hurt, shared childhood secrets that seemed impossibly important, and watched clouds drift overhead as though the whole world existed only within that circle of water.

It was, in many ways, our kingdom.

The lake itself possessed a kind of quiet magic.

Even during the hottest, muggiest afternoons, the water never became truly warm. Somewhere beneath us, hidden among ancient glacial sands, cold springs continued their patient work. The first plunge always stole your breath. The coolness wrapped itself around you like a surprise, washing away the sticky heat in an instant. It awakened every sense.

The water was astonishingly clear. Looking down, you could see smooth stones resting on the sandy bottom, sunlight dancing across them in shifting ribbons. Perhaps that clarity came because it was one of those northwoods kettle lakes, born thousands of years ago when retreating glaciers left behind deep hollows that slowly filled with pure groundwater. With no rivers stirring mud into its depths, the lake became almost mirror-like.

Sometimes, if you swam far enough out and dove deep enough, you crossed the thermocline—that invisible boundary where the warm surface water suddenly gave way to water so cold it felt as though you had opened the door to winter itself. It was startling every single time.

The Ojibwe have long regarded lakes like these with reverence. Some speak of them as the eyes of the earth, places where the world quietly watches itself. In the deepest waters lives Mishipeshu, the great water panther, guardian of hidden places and ancient mysteries. And across the evening lake the haunting call of a loon carries through the stillness—a sound that has echoed across these waters for countless generations. To many Indigenous peoples, the loon is more than simply a bird; it is a messenger between worlds, reminding us that nature is alive with meanings deeper than our own.

As children, we knew none of the science and only fragments of the stories.

Yet somehow, we understood the magic anyway.

Floating on my back, I would look upward into an endless blue sky framed by towering white pines. Dragonflies skimmed the surface. The breeze whispered through the trees. The lake held me effortlessly, asking nothing except that I surrender to its embrace.

Perhaps that was its greatest gift.

The water carried not only our bodies but also every worry we did not yet know we had.

This morning, as I sip my coffee, those voices return to me. I hear laughter drifting across the water. I remember names, faces, conversations that seemed ordinary then but have become treasures now. For a few beautiful moments, I am swimming once again in that clear northwoods lake.

Then I look around.

The coffee is still warm.

The music has changed from youthful laughter to the gentle cadence of classical strings.

Outside, another hot July day is waiting.

Inside, I smile.

The lake is many miles away.

Some of the people whose laughter filled those summers have followed different paths through life. Some are no longer here.

Yet none of that summer has truly been lost.

Memory is a remarkable kind of water. It carries us backward without asking us to leave the present. It reminds us that joy does not disappear; it simply becomes part of who we are. Every kindness we have known, every friendship that shaped us, every afternoon spent beneath blue skies beside cool water continues flowing quietly within us.

Perhaps that is the invitation this morning offers to all of us.

Each of us has a lake.

Perhaps it is an actual place. Perhaps it is a porch, a grandparent's kitchen, a favorite trail through the woods, or a song that carries us home in an instant. Whatever it is, those places still nourish us. They remind us that peace is never entirely gone; it waits patiently within memory until we need it again.

So today, when the world feels hurried or heavy, pause for a moment.

Take a slow breath.

Remember your own clear water.

Let its coolness wash across your heart once more.

Carry its quiet strength with you into this day.

And perhaps, like me this morning, you'll refill your coffee mug, smile at an old memory that still sparkles like sunlight on rippling water, and discover that the music of yesterday is still gently playing beneath the soundtrack of today.
​
May your day be filled with moments that become tomorrow's cherished memories.

~Wylddane

"In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks."
~John Muir

Another July morning begins.

The forecast promises yet another day of extraordinary heat and humidity. The meteorologists tell us we may equal—or even surpass—records first set nearly ninety years ago during the Dust Bowl summers of the 1930s. I find myself wondering about those distant days. Were the winds the same? Did the mornings begin with the same shimmering light? What invisible patterns connected those years to ours? It is a question worth exploring, because curiosity is one of the quiet gifts of growing older. It reminds us that learning never truly ends.

But for now, I leave those questions to the scientists.

This morning belongs to something simpler.

My coffee is warm in my hands. Outside my window, the first sunlight has begun to touch the leaves, and a gentle breeze stirs them just enough to catch the light. Earlier, I filled the birdbath with fresh water. Yesterday a bluebird stopped by—not only to drink but to splash happily in the cool water. Such a small moment. Such a beautiful one. It reminded me that joy rarely announces itself with fanfare. More often it arrives on blue wings.

Yesterday I also noticed the coneflowers had begun to bloom.

Every summer they wait patiently for their appointed season, and then suddenly they are there—lifting their bright purple blossoms toward the sun as though they have been practicing resilience all year long.

The more I read about them, the more I admired them.

Long before gardeners planted them for their beauty, Indigenous peoples knew them as healers. The Ute observed elk seeking them when wounded and called them elk root. The Navajo honored them as a sacred Life Medicine. Plains tribes relied upon them for comfort, healing, and restoration. What appears to many of us as simply another wildflower has, for centuries, carried a history of hope.

Perhaps that is what I sense when I look at them.

Wisdom.

Not the loud wisdom that demands attention, but the quiet wisdom that simply stands in the summer heat and blooms.

Coneflowers flourish through the hottest weeks of summer and often remain until the first autumn frost. They become gathering places for butterflies and native bees. Later, when winter settles across the landscape, their seed-filled cones nourish goldfinches and other birds. They give without hurry, without complaint, and without expecting recognition.

There is something profoundly beautiful about a life lived that way.

As I sip another mouthful of coffee, I realize that this ordinary July morning has already given me everything I need: birdsong, sunlight, a cool birdbath, the whisper of leaves, the companionship of flowers, and another day in which to notice them all.

Perhaps that is the invitation hidden within every new morning.

Stand tall through the heat.

Offer whatever beauty you can.

Nourish those who come your way.

Trust that even the smallest acts—a flower blooming, a bird bathing, a kindness shared—become part of a much larger story.

So today I begin with what I can only call coneflower joy.

May we all discover it—in our gardens, in our quiet moments, in our questions, in our gratitude, and in the simple miracle of being alive on another summer morning.
​
May we greet this day, and every day that follows, with open hearts, curious minds, and the quiet resilience of a coneflower reaching toward the sun.

~Wylddane

"The miracle is not to walk on water. The miracle is to walk on the green earth in the present moment."
~Thich Nhat Hanh

This morning I find myself returning to a simple truth: my life is good.

Not perfect. Not untouched by loss or disappointment. Not free from grief or uncertainty. Simply...good.

Outside my window, another extraordinary July day is already announcing itself. Though dawn has only recently broken, the heat is beginning to shimmer above the lawn and settle over the trees like an invisible veil. Summer has fully claimed the northwoods.

Inside the wee cottage, however, there is only quiet.

A mug of coffee warms my hands. Joshua Bell's violin fills the room with the tender beauty of Borodin's Nocturne in D. The music seems less like a performance than a gentle conversation with the morning itself—unhurried, graceful, and deeply human.

These are the moments that remind me who I am.

Over the years I have discovered that my spirituality is not found in doctrines or certainty. Instead, it is found in belonging. I do not see myself as separate from this vast, mysterious universe but as one small expression of it. Like a drop of water in the ocean, I am distinct, yet inseparable from the whole. The same life that stirs the pines outside my window, that reflects in the quiet lake, that sings through birds at dawn and whispers through summer breezes, also moves through me.

When I forget this, life becomes smaller.
When I remember it, life becomes wonder again.

Perhaps that is why gratitude is such a powerful practice. It gently shifts our attention away from what is absent and toward what is already here: the taste of morning coffee, the kindness of a friend, music that touches the heart, memories that still make us smile, the promise hidden within every sunrise.

None of these erase sorrow.

But they remind us that sorrow is never the whole story.

I continue to be a work in progress. Every day offers another opportunity to become a little kinder, a little more patient, a little more compassionate toward others and toward myself. Some days I succeed better than others. That, too, is part of the journey. Growth is seldom dramatic. More often it is quiet, almost unnoticed, like a tree adding one more ring beneath its bark or a river slowly smoothing a stone.

Perhaps living well is not about becoming someone entirely new.

Perhaps it is about remembering, again and again, who we have always been beneath the noise, beneath the fear, beneath the endless distractions—a small but precious part of something infinitely larger than ourselves.

As this warm July day unfolds, I hope we each carry that remembrance with us.

May we notice the ordinary miracles that surround us.
May we choose gratitude over scarcity, kindness over judgment, and hope over despair.
May we remember that while we cannot control every circumstance, we can choose the spirit with which we meet them.

And may we discover, perhaps in the quiet of an early morning with a cup of coffee in our hands, that a good life is not measured by having everything we want.

It is measured by awakening to the extraordinary beauty of what we already have.

Today is enough.
​
And that is a very good place to begin.

~Wylddane

"The earth laughs in flowers."
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

This morning I have been awake since well before dawn. The wee cottage was wrapped in that wonderful stillness that belongs only to the hours before sunrise. My first mug of coffee warmed my hands as I sat quietly at my desk, listening to the familiar sounds of another day preparing to be born. Outside, the darkness slowly surrendered to the gentle gray of morning, and now, as I write these words, the first light is filtering through the trees.

Today promises to be another hot July day. The forecast speaks of a record-breaking heatwave, and already the air feels heavy with summer's warmth. Yet my thoughts are not on the heat. Instead, they have wandered back to yesterday afternoon.

After sharing coffee with friends, we said our goodbyes and each headed home. Along the sidewalk, something caught my eye. There, blooming as though they belonged to another season entirely, were magnificent white Annabelle hydrangeas. Their enormous blossoms seemed almost impossible—great round clusters of white that looked for all the world like freshly packed snowballs resting among deep green leaves.

I stopped and smiled.

There was something wonderfully comforting about seeing "snow" in the middle of July.

Hydrangeas have long been associated with grace, purity, and heartfelt emotion. One beautiful Japanese legend tells of an emperor who offered hydrangeas to the family of the woman he loved as an apology for the years he had neglected her while tending to the affairs of his empire. Whether the story is history or simply legend hardly matters. Like so many flowers, hydrangeas have become a language of the heart, expressing feelings that words sometimes struggle to carry.

But yesterday these blossoms seemed to whisper something else.

They reminded me that every season quietly carries the memory of another.

Summer is never entirely without reminders of winter. Winter holds within it the promise of spring. Autumn carries the golden memory of summer even as the leaves begin to fall. Nature is never as divided as our calendars would have us believe. Every season reaches gently toward the next, and sometimes even toward the one that came before.

Perhaps that is why those white blossoms lingered in my thoughts long after I had returned home.

In the midst of oppressive heat, they offered the imagination a moment of coolness. They invited me to remember snowy walks, crisp winter mornings, and the peaceful silence that follows a fresh snowfall. Yet they did so without wishing summer away. They simply stood where they were planted, fully embracing July while carrying the gentle appearance of January.

There is wisdom in that.

How often do we find ourselves wishing for another season of life? We hurry through difficult days hoping for easier ones, forgetting that even now there are moments of unexpected beauty waiting quietly beside the path. Perhaps peace is found not in escaping the season we are living, but in discovering the gifts it already contains.

As I finish this reflection, the sun has now climbed above the trees, and another new day stretches before me. My coffee mug is nearly empty, birds are beginning their morning chorus, and the world is slowly waking.

Somewhere, along a village sidewalk, those white hydrangeas are still blooming—little snowballs in July.

They remind me that hope often arrives quietly. Sometimes it appears as the first light of dawn. Sometimes it comes in the warmth of a shared cup of coffee with friends. And sometimes, on the hottest days of summer, it blooms in brilliant white, gently reminding us that beauty has a way of surprising us when we least expect it.
​
May we never become too hurried to notice the snowballs that bloom in July. They are small miracles, quietly teaching us that every day—even the hottest among them—holds the possibility of wonder.

~Wylddane

"Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience."
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Yesterday morning, around ten o'clock, I happened to glance out the window of the wee cottage and was greeted by an unexpected visitor.

A white-tailed doe stood quietly in the yard.

Living in Wisconsin's northwoods, seeing deer is certainly not unusual. Yet they usually belong to the edges of the day—to dawn's first light or the hush of evening. A doe wandering peacefully through the yard in the middle of a summer morning felt like an unexpected gift.

So I simply stood and watched.

She moved without hurry, without anxiety, without any need to prove herself. Every step seemed measured, graceful, almost effortless. For several precious minutes the ordinary rhythm of my morning gave way to something quieter, something deeper. The world did not stop. Yet it somehow became still.

Across many cultures, the deer has long been a symbol of gentleness, intuition, compassion, and quiet strength. Celtic stories speak of deer as guides that invite us toward deeper journeys of the soul. Native traditions often see them as reminders to walk softly upon the earth while remaining resilient. In Buddhist art, deer stand beside the Wheel of Dharma, recalling wisdom offered in peace rather than power. Carl Jung saw the deer as a symbol of the soul's invitation toward sensitivity and natural wisdom.

Whether one embraces those traditions as history, poetry, or simply beautiful metaphors, they all seem to whisper the same lesson.

Strength does not always announce itself with noise.

Sometimes strength walks softly.

Sometimes wisdom pauses to listen.

Sometimes courage appears as gentleness.

Yesterday morning, standing at my window, I realized the doe had given me a gift without ever knowing it. She reminded me that not every day requires rushing from one obligation to another. Not every problem must be confronted with force. There is another way of moving through the world—with patience, awareness, kindness, and a quiet confidence that life often unfolds exactly as it should.

This morning the heat wave has, at least temporarily, loosened its grip. The windows of the wee cottage stand open, welcoming cool, fresh air. My coffee has been especially good. Outside, a wren sings its cheerful melody while a robin offers its familiar greeting. Above them all, the clear, fluting notes of a cardinal drift through the trees.

Who needs an orchestra when nature is already performing a morning symphony?

Sunlight is now beginning to gild the tops of the towering forest leaves, and another day quietly opens before us.

Perhaps the little doe was never meant to be an omen or a message from somewhere beyond. Perhaps she was simply herself.

And perhaps that is message enough.

May we meet this day with her gentle spirit. May we walk softly without walking timidly. May we choose compassion over harshness, patience over hurry, and quiet strength over loud certainty.
​
Like the doe, may we move through this beautiful day with grace.

~Wylddane

"In beauty may I walk. All day long may I walk. Through the returning seasons may I walk."
~Traditional Navajo Blessing

The summer sunrise over Coon Lake is a quiet miracle.

Although the wee cottage is only a block away, the lake remains mostly hidden behind the trees during the lush months of summer. In winter, when the branches stand bare, I can glimpse the water from my windows. But this morning, as I look upon this image of the lake bathed in the first light of dawn, I am reminded that some things do not need to be seen every day to be deeply present in our lives.

Yesterday was a day of grief.

The loss of a dear friend settled over me like a gentle rain. There was no timetable for it, no expectation that sorrow should arrive neatly or depart on command. Grief travels at its own speed. It asks nothing of us except honesty. Yesterday, I honored that journey.

This morning feels different.

Not because my friend is forgotten—far from it—but because a new day has quietly arrived.

The Ojibwe people have long regarded sunrise as sacred. They greet Giizis, Grandfather Sun, with gratitude, recognizing each dawn as a doorway into wisdom, healing, and new beginnings. The first light is not simply another morning; it is an invitation to begin again, to walk forward in a good way, carrying yesterday's lessons without allowing them to become today's burden.

There is a beautiful legend that tells of Asibikaashi, the Spider Woman, whose delicate webs catch the first rays of the morning sun. Those shimmering threads become places of peace and protection, gathering the light before it reaches the world. I find comfort in that image. Perhaps every sunrise first passes through unseen hands of grace before it touches our own hearts.

This morning I do not participate in an ancient sunrise ceremony, nor do I offer tobacco to the Four Directions. My ritual is simpler, though no less sincere.

I raise my freshly filled mug of coffee.

The aroma curls upward like a small offering of gratitude. Piano music drifts softly through the wee cottage. The warm pool of light upon my desk pushes back the lingering shadows of night. Outside, birds have begun their morning conversations, and somewhere beyond the trees Coon Lake welcomes another day beneath the rising sun.

This, too, is prayer.
This, too, is gratitude.

Perhaps every dawn is like turning the first page of a blank journal. Yesterday's words remain written. They are part of our story and always will be. But today's page waits patiently, inviting us to write something new—not by forgetting what came before, but by allowing love, hope, and memory to continue shaping who we are becoming.

My friend is gone.
The love remains.
The memories remain.

And so does this beautiful morning.

May we all greet this day with grateful hearts. May we remember those who have blessed our lives. May we have the courage to walk gently through whatever joys or sorrows await us. And may the light of this new sunrise remind us that every day, no matter what yesterday held, is another chance to live with kindness, gratitude, and peace.
​
I lift my coffee mug toward the morning.
It is my simple salute to the sunrise.
And somehow...that feels enough.

~Wylddane

"Realize deeply that the present moment is all you ever have."
~Thich Nhat Hanh

The heat has finally loosened its grip—at least for a little while.

By this afternoon, the humidity will almost certainly return, wrapping itself around the wee cottage and settling over the northwoods like a heavy quilt. But this morning belongs to gentleness.

The glass door stands open to welcome the cool air. A neighborhood cat has claimed a sunny corner of the deck as its own and sleeps without the slightest concern for the passage of time. Somewhere beyond the birdbath, a Jenny wren offers her bright little song to the morning. Classical music drifts softly through the cottage while the aroma of fresh coffee rises from the mug warming my hands.

I pause.
I lift the mug in a silent salute to another new day.

How precious this morning is.

Perhaps I notice that more now than I once did.

Not long ago, a dear friend died after a courageous battle with a rare form of cancer. I miss her more than words can easily express. Often my thoughts wander to her life partner, and I wonder how he is navigating the immense quiet that grief leaves behind.

Loss has a curious way of changing us.

It does not simply teach us that life ends.
It teaches us that life is happening—right now.

As another birthday approaches, I realize I will soon be the same age at which several members of my immediate family left this world. It is impossible not to notice that fact. Sometimes the awareness quietly slips into the back of my mind.

Will my own journey end suddenly?
Will it unfold slowly?

None of us knows.

And strangely, I no longer feel compelled to know.

Awareness is different from fear.

One invites anxiety.

The other invites gratitude.

I do not spend my days dwelling on mortality. Instead, I find myself dwelling on mornings like this one.

This cup of coffee.

The sleepy cat on the deck.
The music.
The cool breeze drifting through the open door.
The rose begonia blooming with such extravagant beauty at the front of the cottage, offering everything it has without asking how many summers remain.

Perhaps that is one of nature's quiet lessons.

Flowers do not bloom because tomorrow is guaranteed.

They bloom because today has arrived.

Many religions promise another life beyond this one. Perhaps they are right.

Perhaps they are not.

I honestly do not know.

But I find myself wondering if heaven begins long before death.

Maybe heaven begins the moment we truly notice where we already are.

Maybe it is this right now.

This breath.
This song of the Jenny wren.
This warmth of coffee in my hands.
This extraordinary privilege of simply being alive.

Recently I came across words that have stayed with me:

Healing is strange. You spend years learning how to survive, and then one day you must learn how to live again.

How true that is.

Life wounds us all eventually. We experience disappointment, heartbreak, illness, loss, betrayal, and grief.

Little by little we become experts at protecting ourselves.

Yet healing asks something entirely different of us.

It asks us to believe that not every chapter ends in sorrow.

That there are still kind people.
There are still beautiful mornings.
There is still joy waiting quietly to find us.

Perhaps the hardest part of healing is not releasing what has been.

Perhaps it is trusting that life still has something beautiful to offer.

That we are worthy of receiving it.

Those thoughts remind me of something Wayne Dyer once wrote:

"Life presents itself to you and asks nothing of you. You can take life and swim deliriously through it, or you can fight it. But when you elect to spend your time fighting it, you can't use the same time to enjoy it."

I think there is wisdom there.

Life has never promised certainty.

It has never promised fairness.
It has never promised tomorrow.

But it offers us this morning.

And perhaps that is enough.

So I begin another day.

I sip my coffee.
I raise my mug in quiet gratitude.
I listen to the Jenny wren singing.
I listen to the music filling the cottage.
I listen to the gentle silence between the notes.
I listen to this moment.
​
And for today—
that is more than enough.

~Wylddane

"The spirit of liberty is the spirit which is not too sure that it is right..."
~Learned Hand, The Spirit of Liberty (1944)

This morning dawns warm, cloudy, and heavy with July humidity. My first mug of coffee rests beside me as flute music drifts softly through the quiet rooms of the wee cottage. Outside, another day begins. It is Independence Day—the 250th anniversary of the birth of this nation.

For the first time in my life, I find that I cannot celebrate in the usual sense of the word.

Instead, I grieve.

I grieve because I look around and see a nation deeply divided, where fear too often seems louder than compassion, where disagreement has become suspicion, where many people feel that fundamental rights, human dignity, and the rule of law are under strain. I grieve for families living with uncertainty, for neighbors afraid of one another, and for all whose voices seem to disappear beneath the shouting.

Yet grief is not the opposite of patriotism.

Yesterday I read remarks from New York City mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani that reminded me of something I had almost forgotten. He said:

"Patriotism has never been about pretending our nation is without flaws. Patriotism is every act of righteous dissent. It is every march led under the heavy sun. It is every protest held a decade before its time. It is precisely because we love this nation that we will not leave it."

Those words lingered with me.

Real patriotism has never required us to deny injustice. It has always required us to confront it—not because we despise our country, but because we believe it is capable of becoming more fully itself.

Mamdani continued by telling newly naturalized citizens:

"You each hold a special power, the power to determine what America means."

That may be the greatest responsibility any generation inherits.

This morning I also found myself returning to the words of Judge Learned Hand, spoken in 1944 during another anxious chapter of history:

"Liberty lies in the hearts of men and women; when it dies there, no constitution, no law, no court can save it."

How profoundly true those words remain.

Our institutions matter. Our Constitution matters. Our courts matter. But ultimately, liberty lives or dies first within ordinary people—in how we treat our neighbors, how we speak to those with whom we disagree, whether we protect the vulnerable, and whether we refuse to surrender our compassion to fear.

Perhaps my favorite passage is this:

"The spirit of liberty is the spirit which is not too sure that it is right; the spirit of liberty is the spirit which seeks to understand the minds of other men and women..."

What extraordinary humility those words require.

Not certainty.
Not triumph.
Not domination.
Humility.

The willingness to remember that every human being possesses an inherent dignity that cannot be measured by citizenship, wealth, race, religion, political party, or whom they love.

Carl Tucker, this morning, ended his reflection with a question that echoes in my own heart: What happened to this America? I understand that question. I feel its sadness.

But perhaps there is another question we must ask ourselves.

What kind of America will we help create tomorrow?

History reminds us that our nation has never been perfect. The promises written into the Declaration of Independence have always been aspirations as much as accomplishments. Every generation has been called upon to widen the circle of liberty a little farther than it was before.

That work is unfinished.
Perhaps it always will be.

I take another sip of coffee. The flute continues to sing softly through the cottage. The morning light grows a little brighter beyond the window.

Today I will spend time with friends who have become family. We will embrace. We will laugh. We will share stories and a good meal. In a world that can feel fractured, such moments are quiet acts of hope. They remind us that community is still possible, kindness is still possible, love is still possible.

And so, while I cannot celebrate this anniversary in the way I once did, neither can I surrender to despair.

Instead, I choose to hope.

I hope that this nation may yet become more just than it is today.
I hope that liberty will continue to live in the hearts of ordinary people.
I hope that compassion will prove stronger than fear.

And I hope that one day America will again become—not because it claims to be, but because it chooses to be—a beacon of light whose brightest strength is found in its unwavering commitment to the dignity of every human being.
​
Perhaps that hope, quietly held and faithfully lived, is the most patriotic prayer I can offer this Fourth of July.

~Wylddane