Michael walked the narrow trail beside the St. Croix River, his boots crunching through frost-kissed grass. Thanksgiving morning had risen cold and bright, the sky that unmistakable November blue—sharp as glass, endless as memory. Osceola was waking behind him: kitchen lights glowing gold in distant farmhouses, early risers warming ovens, children tumbling sleepily toward holiday excitement.

But here, at Osceola Landing, the world felt older. Quieter. More honest.

Michael had made this walk a ritual in recent years—his gentle escape before the happy bedlam of family, food, and stories began. At fifty-three, he had grown into a man of quiet rhythms. Books, morning walks, an appreciation for silence, a good cup of coffee, an occasional melancholy that blew through him like a northern wind, and a growing desire to understand the deeper currents of his own life.

He paused where the tall grasses leaned toward the water, their coppery blades catching the sunlight like a painter’s stroke. His breath puffed white in the air. The river was a deep, cold blue—the kind of blue that held centuries.

He bent to pick up a smooth skipping stone, its surface mottled with time. As he drew his arm back, he heard it:
a murmur—a gathering of voices—carried strangely on the wind.

Michael froze. The stone slipped from his fingers, landing silently in the grass.

There was no one else around. No footsteps on the trail. No boats. No voices from the distant bridge.

Yet the sound persisted…a low rhythmic cadence, like a chant, or a prayer. Not English. Not anything he recognized. The words flowed like the current itself—rolling, ancient, woven with gratitude.

The voice sounded warm. Human. And timeless.

He swallowed hard, listening.

The language shifted. Softened. Became French. Suddenly he could almost see them: voyageurs paddling sleek birch-bark canoes through morning mist, trading stories with Indigenous families along the shore. He heard laughter. The splash of paddles in the river water. The hopeful breath of men seeking a new world.

Then—another turn of time.

German settlers, speaking earnestly of winter cabins and hard ground broken by hand. A young Civil War soldier whispering a letter home about a meager Thanksgiving meal shared in the mud near Chattanooga. A calliope’s bright, brassy song from a passing showboat in the gilded 1880s. Children in knickers and wool dresses racing along the levee in the 1920s, their laughter skipping across the water like sunlight.

Michael felt the hair on his arms rise beneath his coat.
It wasn’t fear.
It was recognition.

These were not ghosts.
These were memories the river itself had kept.

A thousand stories carried downstream, braided into the water like threads of gold. A timeline of the living. A thanksgiving that had never stopped being spoken.

A strange warmth filled his chest.
A knowing.
A belonging.

He closed his eyes, letting the voices drift over him—generations whispering their thanks into the wind. And in their gratitude, he found a reflection of his own: the love of a family waiting for him just up the road…the hard years he had survived…the quiet hopes he still carried…the sacredness of simply being alive on this cold November morning.

When he opened his eyes again, the voices faded back into the steady lap of water against the shore.

The wind stirred the branches.
A few stubborn leaves shivered in the sunlight.

Michael exhaled, noticing a single tear that had escaped, tracing a cold path down his cheek. He hadn’t realized how much he needed this reminder—that he was part of something larger, older, more enduring than any worry he’d brought with him.

He turned toward Osceola, toward the warmth, toward the people who loved him.
His steps were lighter now.
His heart, fuller.

The river had given him a story—and a truth he would carry home:

Gratitude is a living current.
It flows through each of us--
past, present, and yet to come.

* * * * * * * * * *

The vision of the river fades softly, like mist rising off quiet water. I blink, returning to the warm embrace of the wee cottage. Outside, dawn begins to blossom along the horizon, its colors gentle and earnest—rose, gold, the faintest thread of lavender.

My coffee is rich and fragrant, warming my hands.

And from the speakers comes the solemn, soaring beauty of Wagner’s Pilgrim’s Chorus from Tannhäuser.
Its harmonies rise like a prayer—steady, hopeful, timeless.

In this moment, gratitude becomes its own river, flowing through memory and morning light.

I breathe in, letting the stillness settle.
A new day begins.
And I am thankful for it--
for the stories that shaped me,
for the quiet beauty of this place,
for the unspoken blessings that accompany each step into the hours ahead.

May I walk into this day aware of the gifts it carries.
May gratitude guide my thoughts,
and may kindness be the current that leads me forward.


“Gratitude is the memory of the heart.”  ~Jean-Baptiste Massieu

~Wylddane

The storm arrived in the night, a whisper turned to a roar. By dawn the world had vanished beneath a thick billow of white—snow heaped against windowsills, the pines sagging under its weight, the road erased as though some ancient hand had swept it clean.

Benjamin stood at the kitchen window of his cottage, coffee in hand, watching the flakes swirl like wandering spirits. An older man now, steady of heart and gentle of soul, he lived a quiet life deep in the woods—a life he had cultivated with intention. Books lined the walls like old companions. Music, fine and thoughtful, filled the corners of the cottage. The great stone fireplace was the hearth of both warmth and memory. Friends who had become family visited often, and family who had become friends stayed close in his heart. Yes, it was a good life—perhaps quieter than the one he had once imagined for himself, but no less rich.

He was meant to spend this Thanksgiving with those dear ones. A long drive. A shared feast. Laughter floating like candlelight. But with last night’s early-season blizzard sweeping through the Northwoods, travel was out of the question. The roads were closed. Drifts were already waist-deep. The cottage, lovely as it was, had become an island.

Benjamin sighed, not in sadness but in a kind of unmoored bemusement. “Well,” he murmured, “what does one do with a day meant for gathering when one is suddenly…not gathered?”

He evaluated his larder. A few potatoes. A basket of apples. A small ham. A half-finished bottle of wine. Not a feast by any stretch, but enough to make something of the day if he tried. Perhaps, he thought, a quiet Thanksgiving wouldn’t be so terrible. A little reflection. A little gratitude. A little peace.

Yet the Universe had other plans.

Sometime near midday, a knock echoed across the wood-planked rooms. Then another. Benjamin opened the door to find two neighbors—snow-dusted, breathless, grinning. Their own plans had been cancelled; their own homes felt too quiet. So they had trudged through the drifts, arms laden with casseroles, bread, pies, and—bless them—a bottle of good wine.

“Thought you might enjoy some company,” they said.

And just like that, the wee cottage transformed. The fire crackled merrily, throwing golden light across the walls. Food covered the table—unexpected abundance. Stories were shared. Laughter rose like a flock of migrating geese. Even the old books on the shelves seemed to lean forward, listening.

One neighbor played the violin—soft tunes at first, then joyful reels. Another found a deck of cards. Someone toasted to unexpected blessings. Someone else added, “Sometimes the best holidays are the ones we never planned.”

Benjamin, his heart full, realized something quietly profound: he had lost nothing by staying home. Instead, the day had widened, expanded, shimmered. What had begun as disappointment had become one of the most meaningful Thanksgivings of his life. Gratitude had not arrived with fanfare; it had come disguised as snowflakes, footsteps, shared food, and the deep, bright warmth of human presence.

It was as though the Universe had whispered, “Look again. There is always more than you think.”

* * * * * * * * * *

And now, I sit at my desk in the wee cottage of my own. Dawn’s emerging light casts a soft, magical glow across the November morning. There is no storm on this quiet morning, though I can feel it as I stir from this imaginative story I have just lived within. I take a sip of coffee—hot, rich, comforting—and it brightens the moment the way only morning coffee can.

Somewhere in the quiet, I realize I am listening to Gianella’s Flute Concerto No. 1 in D, delicate and uplifting, its notes drifting through the room like feathered blessings.

I think of Benjamin. I think of his snowed-in Thanksgiving. I think of unexpected miracles, and how gratitude often hides within them, waiting to be seen.

And with these blessings in my own heart—music, warmth, light, reflection—I begin this new day.

* * * * * * * * * *

​“In ordinary moments, the extraordinary waits quietly to be noticed.”  ~Anon

~Wylddane

He found the letter one crisp November morning while sorting through a box of old papers—the kind of box filled with forgotten fragments of a life: ticket stubs, postcards, faded photographs, and folded notes written in a younger hand. The letter wasn’t long, nor particularly eloquent, but its warmth leapt across time. It was from a man named Mr. Albright, who had once offered him kindness at a moment when the world had felt unbearably cold.

He remembered it vividly—the year everything seemed to fall apart. Work lost, love gone silent, the light dimmed in ways he could not explain. And yet, one evening, sitting on a park bench by the St. Croix River, Mr. Albright had sat beside him and simply listened. No advice. No judgment. Just presence. Then he’d said quietly, “You know, gratitude is like a lantern. It doesn’t change the night, but it shows you where to place your next step.”

Those words had stayed with him. That lantern, unseen but steady, had guided him through dark places.

Years passed, and the young man had grown older, wiser perhaps, certainly gentler. Standing now by the same river, he noticed a single shrub blazing with golden leaves amid the dull November grass. Sunlight slipped through clouds, catching the leaves in a moment of pure alchemy—amber, copper, fire. It was as though the earth herself whispered, Behold what endures.

He thought then of how kindness endures too—how one small gesture ripples outward like the widening circles of a pebble dropped in still water. Mr. Albright was long gone, but his words remained alive, breathing quietly in every act of compassion, every grateful thought.

He took a deep breath, watching his own reflection shimmer and break upon the river’s surface. Gratitude, he realized, wasn’t about counting blessings; it was about seeing them. It was the art of noticing—of being awake enough to recognize grace in the simplest things: sunlight through golden leaves, the crisp scent of autumn air, the music of wind through bare branches.

He smiled, whispering into the silence, “Thank you.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Now, as dawn unfolds beyond the windows of the wee cottage, the horizon blushes with rose and gold—morning’s quiet symphony. The coffee, rich and aromatic, warms my hands as the first notes of Elgar’s Cello Concerto drift through the room, tender as memory.

The world outside glistens in frost and promise. Inside, there is peace—a peace born not from perfection, but from presence. I know that every thought I hold shapes the landscape of his day.

As Dr. Wayne Dyer once said:
“Once you realize that what you think about is the source of your reality, then you will pay more attention to what you're thinking in any given moment.”

And so, I choose gratitude. I choose to think beauty, to think kindness, to think love. Because what we hold in mind becomes what we see in the world.

The sun rises a little higher, spilling gold across the table. I take another sip of coffee, smile softly, and let the music carry me into the light of a new day—heart steady, soul grateful.

“Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others.”   ~Cicero

~Wylddane

The sunrise flames across the November sky, the world awash in hues of rose, violet, and gold. The trees stand in silhouette—solemn witnesses to the morning’s quiet beauty. On this day of remembrance, I find myself thinking of the countless souls who had walked into battle, into darkness, and into history.

* * * * * * * * * *


Private James Burke clutched the small brass locket in his pocket, its smooth surface warm from the press of his hand. Inside was a tiny photograph of his mother and the faint scent of home—lavender and woodsmoke. He had a strange feeling he was going to need its comfort.

The mud, the rats, the ceaseless thunder of artillery—it was all a blur of fear and exhaustion. Yet the locket was a constant, a fragile thread binding him to life.

A few days later, during a push near St. Quentin, a searing pain burst through his chest. He fell back, certain the end had come. But by some miracle, the bullet struck the locket, glancing off just enough to wound, not kill.

He lay bleeding in the cold mud, the roar of battle dimming to a hollow silence. And then—out of the smoke—a young German officer appeared. The man looked barely older than James, his face pale with disbelief at the carnage surrounding them. Without a word, he knelt, lifted James in his arms, and carried him across no-man’s-land to a field hospital.

James survived. He would live to tell the story of the “lucky locket,” and the German who had shown him mercy in the heart of hell. But the truth—the secret he never shared—was that the face he had seen through the haze of pain was one he recognized. It was his childhood friend from the same small Wisconsin village. Whether that was a vision, a ghost, or grace itself, he never knew. But for the rest of his days, he carried the locket close, a reminder that even amid war, humanity can still find its way through the smoke.

* * * * * * * * * *
Now, as I sit in the wee cottage watching the dawn rise beyond the bare November trees, Karl Jenkins’ Benedictus from The Armed Man drifts softly through the room. The music—reverent, sacred—floats like a prayer, honoring those who gave their lives and those who returned with wounds unseen.

I pause. I take a sip from my steaming, fragrant mug of coffee. The sunrise announces a new day’s arrival; its colors, rich and radiant, honor every soul who once believed in freedom, compassion, and peace.

Even though dishonor has crept into high places and truth seems shadowed by deceit, I know those men and women did not die in vain. Their courage calls to us still—to remember, to act with integrity, and to lift our nation from the brink.
​
Today, in the glow of morning light, remembrance is not sorrow—it is a vow.

“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old...”   ~Laurence Binyon

~Wylddane

The wind howled — a lonely wolf’s cry against the windowpane. Inside the sturdy, comfortable cottage, twelve-year-old Lily watched the world turn from gray to white. It was the first snow of winter. Fat, fluffy flakes tumbled from the sky, dusting the world in a pristine, silent blanket.

Lily loved the snow. It meant snowball fights, no school, and her grandmother’s famous hot cocoa. As evening deepened, the flakes grew larger, piling on the windowsill, softening the edges of the world until everything seemed wrapped in peace. After dinner, bundled in her favorite fuzzy pajamas, Lily curled up by the fire with a book, the dancing flames casting a golden glow on her face.

Her grandmother, Nan, sat nearby in her old rocking chair, knitting a scarf the color of a winter sky.
“It’s a special snow tonight, Lily-bug,” Nan murmured, her needles clicking softly. “The kind that carries a little bit of magic.”
Lily looked up, intrigued. “Magic snow? Like in fairy tales?”
Nan smiled, her eyes bright. “Maybe so. Legend says the very first snow of winter sometimes brings wishes to life. If you wish hard enough—and believe with all your heart—the snow spirits might just grant it.”

Lily thought for a moment. She could wish for anything… a new bike, her best friend to move back, even world peace. But tonight, she wished for something simpler.
“I wish the snow would just… dance,” she whispered.

“Then keep watching,” Nan said with a knowing smile.

Outside, the flakes seemed to listen. One—larger, brighter than the rest—began to swirl, not fall. Another joined it, and another. Soon, the night outside her window shimmered with a ballet of snowflakes, spinning and weaving in intricate, graceful patterns.

She gasped. The snow was truly dancing!

Unable to resist, Lily threw open the door and stepped into the soft white night. The snowflakes twirled around her like tiny ballerinas, glinting under the moonlight. One bright flake landed on her glove and began to glow with a silvery light.

“Wish granted, Lily,” came a tiny, crystalline voice.

The flake unfurled delicate wings and laughed—a snow sprite! Dozens more appeared, fluttering around her in a swirl of light and laughter. They placed a crown of shimmering snowflakes in her hair and led her through the sleeping forest, showing her deer nestled in snowy clearings and frost flowers blooming on frozen branches.

When dawn came, the world lay still and white again. The sprites were gone, and Nan only smiled when Lily tried to explain. But when she brushed her hair, a single perfect snowflake remained—bright and unmelted—a reminder that the world is more magical than we often remember.

* * * * * * * * * *

My early morning dreaming of snowflakes and cottages dissolves like steam from my mug of coffee. Outside, it is dark and cold. Yesterday brought our own first snow—not much, just a dusting, but enough to awaken memory and wonder.

Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake dances softly through the room, its melodies gliding like morning light across the walls, enhancing the reverie and deepening the hush of the new day. It is a moment suspended between music and silence, between dream and awakening.

How rare and beautiful it is simply to be part of this magical, mysterious universe—to breathe, to notice, to feel the hush between the notes of a winter morning. I take another sip of coffee, gaze out the window, and for a heartbeat, I swear I see them—the snow sprites—dancing in the breeze.
​
And so I begin this day.

“To appreciate the wonder of life, one must sometimes be still enough to see the snow dance.”  ~Anon

~Wylddane

​

The rhythmic thump beneath his ribs was the most ordinary sound in the world, yet Soren stopped on the sun-drenched street corner, truly hearing it for the first time. For years, the steady beat had been nothing more than background noise to his busy, often-stressed life. But the scare last week—a dizzy spell and a doctor’s quiet warning—had changed everything. Now, it was a profound, personal symphony.

He closed his eyes and placed a hand over his chest.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

He began walking again, but slower this time, matching his pace to the rhythm. With each beat, a wave of overwhelming gratitude washed over him. The air smelled faintly of rain and freshly brewed coffee—small details his hurried life usually missed.

He thought of the heart as an old companion, loyal and uncomplaining, with him through scraped knees and rebellious teenage years, through youthful heartbreaks and late-night anxieties. It asked for nothing but a little care, and in return, it powered every moment of his existence. It was the silent hero of his story, enabling every breath, every thought, every step.

Standing on the bridge overlooking the restless river below, Soren felt a lightness he hadn't known in years. He didn’t need dramatic change or sweeping resolutions. His miracle was already present—a quiet, patient promise in his chest:
I am alive. I am alive. I am alive.

The world was loud and chaotic, but his gratitude for that faithful beat was louder, a grounding truth that made this day—not perfect, not extraordinary, but simply lived—enough.

* * * * * * * * * *

And now here we are, this cold November morning, waking to our own quiet miracles.

The first definite cold of the month has settled in—today’s high expected to hover at the freezing mark. Outside the windows of the wee cottage, the world is still and gray, and yet the beauty is there for the seeing. I glance again at the photograph I took at Osceola Landing the other day, the curled and wind-burnished stalk standing against the autumn grasses and the green water of the St. Croix. What some might pass without notice becomes, with attention, a living poem. A reminder that nothing in this world is ever truly ordinary—not a riverbank, not a faded plant, not a single heartbeat.

It feels like a perfect day to make a pot of soup, to light a fire in the fireplace, to let the warmth and fragrance of both fill the rooms. To savor the comforts that are already here, waiting: a steaming mug of coffee, the quiet companionship of Shostakovich’s Piano Concerto No. 2, the sheltering walls of a home that holds gratitude like heat.
​
And as I sit here, listening not only to the music but to my own steady rhythm, I am reminded once again of how easily we forget the miracle of simply being alive—and how joyfully it returns the moment we remember to listen.

“Look in the mirror at least once every day, and give thanks for the heart that continues to beat and the invisible force on which those heartbeats depend.”  ~Dr. Wayne Dyer

~Wylddane

Last night, or more accurately in the quiet hours before yesterday became today, the sky was blessed by what is called a Beaver Moon—a full November moon glowing with a quiet, ancient purpose. I had never heard the term until a neighbor texted me to look outside and see the beauty for myself. Yet at that moment I was deep into a good book, cocooned in lamplight and comfort, and I let the invitation pass.

Much later, when I finally rose to turn out the lights and make my way to bed, I caught sight of the deck beyond the glass door—a wide wash of silver, as if moonlight itself had spilled from an unseen cup. Curiosity nudged me outside. And there it was: the full moon, bright and haloed in a soft golden aura, with tiny sparkles scattered around it. At first I thought they were stars. Only after pausing did I realize they were something stranger, closer, more enchanting—the trees themselves seemed to be glimmering, as if the night had adorned them in jewels of reflected light.

A small spell of magic, unexpected. A reminder that enchantment can arrive quietly, without orchestration, and often only if we are willing to look up at just the right moment.

The Beaver Moon carries with it a symbolic resonance: a time when beavers historically worked to finish their lodges before winter sealed the marshes and streams with ice. In the old ways of naming moons, this one marked winter preparation, resourcefulness, and resilience. Today, its meaning has deepened into something more interior—not so much about storing logs and mud, but strengthening the inner walls of the spirit.

It asks us: What are we building before winter comes? What is worth keeping warm within us? What can we lay down at the river’s edge and let go?

As the final full moon before the solstice, this is a threshold moon—one that encourages both release and renewal. A time to exhale the weight of the year, and to slowly gather what is worth carrying forward: gratitude, clarity, gentleness toward self, and the quiet courage to begin again.

This morning, as the first light of day gently unthreads the darkness, I sit with my coffee in the stillness of the wee cottage. The air is cool enough to feel like November, yet touched with the calm that only comes when the world is suspended between night and day. The crisp, bracing notes of a Sibelius quartet float through the room—another kind of illumination, another kind of moonlight.

And in this moment, the world feels full of possibility. Not loud or dramatic possibility, but the kind that hums beneath the surface, waiting to be noticed. The kind the moon reminds us of when it shines just a little brighter than we expected. The kind that arrives disguised as a blessing in a night sky.

It is so easy to look at life and assume lack, or impossibility, or limitation. Yet a full moon in November—glowing through bare branches, dazzling frost-tipped leaves, and turning the ordinary into the luminous—whispers a gentler truth:

“Too often we jump to the conclusion that something is impossible simply because we cannot see the solution. No one knows enough to be a pessimist.”  ~Dr. Wayne Dyer

Under a Beaver Moon, in the stillness before sunrise, it is impossible not to believe that there is more light than darkness, more mystery than explanation, and more hope than we sometimes dare to claim.
​
And so begins this new November day—soft, shining, and full of hidden gifts.

~Wylddane

It is still dark outside at this early hour, yet already I can sense dawn gathering itself at the horizon—like a soft breath waiting to be released. With the return of standard time, the light comes sooner again, and for that small gift I am quietly grateful. My mug of coffee is warm in my hands, its rich aroma rising like incense to greet the day. The silken notes of James Galway and the London Symphony Orchestra drift through the room--“Dawning of the Day”—as if the music itself is a gentle usher, parting the curtains of night.

Yesterday I had errands to run, tasks simple enough: a stop at the carwash, a few necessities from the store. But even the ordinary can turn into pilgrimage if the heart is willing. When the auto was freshly scrubbed and winter-ready, I rewarded myself with an hour at Barnes & Noble—new books, a cookie, a second cup of coffee, and the delight of unhurried time between pages. It felt like sanctuary.

Then, instead of driving straight home, something called me toward the scenic route. Perhaps it was instinct. Perhaps it was the subtle invitation of a memory, tugging like a loose thread. I passed the old McDonald’s—remodeled now, but still echoing with the laughter of college roommates squeezing into a booth after midnight. I drove by the campus where I earned my degree, where doors opened, friendships rooted, and the future felt like a vast and thrilling horizon. I wound through that familiar old park—still beautiful, still patient—where countless conversations, picnics, and early chapters of adulthood once unfolded like pages in a journal.

By the time I reached the quiet river bend where I stopped to take yesterday’s photograph, I realized where I had been all along: not just on a road, but in the middle of Memory Lane.

Memories, I believe, are not static artifacts. They are the living threads from which the tapestry of the soul is constantly being re-woven. They are not merely “what happened”; they are what continues to happen within us—shaping our sense of self, deepening compassion, reminding us that we have lived, loved, survived, learned, and been carried by grace.

The mind, when viewed mystically, is not a filing cabinet. It is a many-roomed mansion, a vast internal cathedral. Each memory is a chamber with its own acoustics and light. When we revisit these rooms—willingly, reverently—we do not simply recall who we were; we rediscover who we are.

To cherish the past is not to live in it. It is to gather its warmth like autumn leaves and let them compost into wisdom. Gratitude is the alchemy that transforms “what was” into nourishment for “what is.”

Now my coffee mug is empty, and I pause to refill it. Dawn has fully arrived. Outside, the November sky hangs gray and softly expectant. Inside, the wee cottage holds its quiet warmth, its sense of being both shelter and starting point.

A new day begins. New memories will be born today—perhaps unnoticed in the moment, yet destined to glow later like embers in the heart.

I wonder what they will be.
​
Is that not a wonderful thing?

“The past is not where we live, but where we are rooted.”   ~Unknown

~Wylddane

The other day I was wandering through the November woods and came across a small pond I had never noticed before. Whether it has a name or ever did, I cannot say. Some places simply are—they exist without the need for labels, introductions, or explanations. That is the way this pond felt: timeless, self-contained, and quietly alive.

The air held the familiar chill of late autumn, that tender cold which settles into the bones not as discomfort, but as reminder: the year is turning. Leaves—what few remained—rustled softly in the breeze, whispering a language that does not require translation. In that moment, I felt the world pause. No sense of before, no thought of after. Just is.

Standing there, I realized the pond was not merely a patch of water cupped in the earth. It was a living historical document. Every fallen log, every ripple of reflected sky, every faint track in the mud along its edge carried a record of what had passed. Unlike our written histories—curated, trimmed, and bound in certainty—this place held everything without judgment. The deer that once stopped here for water, the storms that lashed across its surface, the seeds carried by wind or wing—it held them all in its quiet archives.

Human history measures time in centuries, decades, dates, and wars. But here, in this gentle hollow of land and water, history is measured in sediment layers and shifting shorelines. In the slow return of frogs in spring. In the way the trees lean, age, and finally fall—becoming part of the soil that nourishes the next generation of saplings. Time is not a line here. It is a spiral, a tide, a long exhale.

And it occurred to me that nature keeps reminding us: we are not outside of this history. We are inside it, breathing it, shaping it, being shaped by it—part of the same rhythm we so often believe we stand above.

I lingered there until the chill deepened, then continued down the trail, one I had never walked before. What better metaphor for life than that moment of turning—leaving something beautiful, not to abandon it, but to carry its quiet into whatever comes next?

Now, as I look at the picture I took that day, I am there again. The pond. The stillness. The leaf-bare branches making lace against the sky. I pause, sip my morning coffee, glance out the bay window at a November gray sky. Christian Cannabich’s Symphony No. 51 drifts through the wee cottage, light as breath, and I find myself inhabiting two places at once: the memory and the now.
​
Dr. Wayne Dyer once asked: “What is it that, when you finish doing it, leaves you immeasurably fulfilled—and while you are doing it, time seems not to exist at all?”

I think I am in one of those moments now. Writing. Remembering. Being.
​
And so I begin this timeless day—not rushing forward into it, not clinging to what was—but simply stepping onto the next part of the trail, trusting it will lead where it needs to lead.

“Time is not something separate from us. It is woven into our very being, and the moment we cease rushing through it, we begin to live inside it.”  ~John O’Donohue

~Wylddane

It is November again—one of those hushed, in-between mornings when the world seems to hold still just long enough for memory to surface. As I sip my first coffee of the day—hot, fragrant, necessary—I am drawn into that long-ago night from my college years: a quiet street, a stop sign, and the sound of dry leaves skittering past my car in the wind. Nothing remarkable except for the feeling that rose inside me—an unexpected ache of melancholy I could not name. I wasn’t sad, not really. I was simply awakening to the truth that life carries seasons inside us, long before experience gives us words to understand them.

That memory returns now like a leaf blown back across the years.

The music in the room is Diane Upshaw, her voice drifting like incense through the quiet, singing Henryk Górecki’s Symphony of Sorrowful Songs—pure, aching, beautiful. Outside, the light gathers slowly, as if November prefers not to arrive all at once. I look to the photograph before me: a quiet river in the northwoods, still as glass, reflecting the bare trees like a second forest turned upside-down.

The leaves are gone. The branches have become script against a pale November sky. The river does not hurry. And something inside me recognizes the lesson.

November is a threshold month, a thin veil between the gold of autumn and the deep dreaming of winter. The river feels like a witness—listening, absorbing, holding the quiet conversations between the seasons. It does not resist the turning of the year; it simply flows, carrying what was, making room for what will be.

The fallen leaves along the banks are not loss—they are surrender. A letting go. Nature shows us, again and again, that shedding is not death but preparation. The river moves onward not in urgency, but in trust.

In the starkness of the season, there is a strange comfort. The landscape, stripped down to bone and branch, offers an uncluttered kind of truth: nothing unnecessary remains. Silence is not emptiness—it is spaciousness. A room large enough for spirit to breathe.

As I sit here, warmed by coffee and music and the small lamp glow of the wee cottage, I realize: this quiet river is a mirror not just of the sky, but of my own inner tide. It invites me to drift inward, to rest in stillness, to stop treating reflection as a luxury and instead honor it as a need.

Dr. Wayne Dyer once said that the key to happiness is not getting what we want, but wanting what we have. Gratitude transforms every inch of life, even the spare land of November.

So I begin this day not with hurry, but with noticing:
the way morning light slowly reveals the world,
the way quiet holds wisdom,
the way breath itself is prayer.

I am thankful—for the river, for memory, for the soft ache of old leaves and new understanding.
​
And for the simple, ongoing miracle of being here,
alive and aware,
on a still November morning.

“Silence is not the absence of sound, but the presence of everything that cannot be heard.”  ~John O’Donohue

~Wylddane