​When the Flowers Bloom

It is the Saturday before Easter Sunday—a day set apart, quiet yet filled with expectancy. The world seems to pause, suspended in a hush of reflection. This day, sacred in its stillness, invites us to contemplate the teachings of Jesus: of compassion and forgiveness, of humility and grace, of life beyond the grave and the eternal promise of renewal.

In this holy hush, I step outside, and the first thing I see is my apple tree in bloom. Its branches, once stark and bare through winter’s grasp, now shimmer with color—petals of deep pink and fuchsia bursting open like tiny declarations of hope. Each blossom a hymn. Each leaf a whisper of life reborn.

There’s something magical about this Saturday—not quite the celebration of Easter Sunday, but more a reverent waiting. A remembering. A looking inward. And amid this gentle space, memories stir—of dyed eggs drying on newspapers spread across the kitchen table, of sticky fingers from sneaking jellybeans, of laughter echoing through houses filled with family and food and the pastel pageantry of spring.

And yes—of Easter lilies standing tall in vases, their white trumpets echoing a silent hallelujah.

But the apple blossoms, oh—they offer their own kind of gospel. They speak in color, in fragrance, in the gentle unfolding of petals that somehow say: It is time. You made it through. Begin again.

Is this not, then, a lesson in itself?

When the flowers bloom, they teach us without words. They remind us of life’s eternal rhythm—that after every winter, there is a spring. After every silence, a song. After every sorrow, the possibility of joy. The world awakens, not in a blaze, but in a soft and certain unfolding.

It is a time of promise.

A promise that beauty will return.

That color will once again paint the canvas of our days.

That no matter how long the darkness lingers, the light is patient, waiting to rise.

So today, on this sacred Saturday, I give thanks—for blossoms and beliefs, for lilies and laughter, for colored eggs and quiet contemplation. For the sweet scent of the apple tree in bloom and the message it brings:
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Live. Begin again. Let your heart flower with hope.

~Wylddane





© 2025 Wylddane Productions, LLC

​The rain falls steadily outside my window, soaking the earth and whispering to the grass to grow greener. It is mid-April in the northwoods, and though full spring has yet to arrive, the promise of it hangs in the air. Budding leaves and blooms still hesitate, caught in that quiet pause between seasons. Yet here I sit, warmed not by the sun, but by a gentle sense of peace, watching the rain puddle in the driveway and trickle along the edges of awakening lawns.

I turn my gaze to an image—a photograph from a spring not so long ago. Bright yellow blossoms burst forth from slender branches, surrounded by a backdrop of sunlit green. Though stylized like a painting, the image pulses with memory. I can almost feel the warmth of that day, hear the birdsong threaded through the breeze, and smell the scent of damp bark and new growth. In it, I see more than flowers. I see hope. I see life mid-bloom.

Today’s reality, however, is gray and wet. The sky is low. The trees, bare but eager, reach like outstretched hands into the mist. And yet I find myself smiling. Because I know—deeply—that this rainy, cloudy, cooler day is precious. It is mine.

Dr. Wayne Dyer once said something I carry in my heart: “You can’t always control what happens to you, but you can control how you react to it.” That truth isn’t just a guidepost through life’s upheavals. It also applies to the seemingly small moments—the weather, the turning of the seasons, the mood we greet the day with.

How easy it would be to complain: another rainy day, another morning without sunlight. But instead, I choose to celebrate. Not because everything is perfect. But because this is the moment I’ve been given. And as far as I know, it is the only one I truly have.

The rain nourishes the soil beneath last year’s fallen leaves. The cool air awakens memories of other Aprils—of gardens planned and paths walked, of laughter echoing in the soft season air. Spring is coming, slowly and honestly. And in its quiet unfolding, there is beauty.

So today, I sit by the window, cradled in this gray light, and I give thanks—for the image of yellow flowers blooming in my memory, for the gift of green returning to the earth, and for this ordinary, extraordinary day.

~Wylddane

(Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)

April arrives on tiptoe, a gentle touch upon the earth, awakening it from winter’s lingering slumber. It does not burst forth all at once but unfolds gradually, like the petals of a flower kissed by the morning sun. Each day, something new stirs—the first blush of green upon the trees, the tiny shoots pushing through damp soil, the sweet chorus of birdsong greeting the dawn. The world, once hushed in winter’s embrace, finds its voice again.

April is a season of quiet transformation. The crisp bite of early mornings softens into the warmth of golden afternoons. Rain showers come and go, their rhythm tapping against windows, leaving behind the scent of damp earth and the shimmer of fresh-washed leaves. The garden, still tentative in its awakening, hums with promise. Here, among tender green leaves and buds preparing to unfurl, is a place of sanctuary—a space where the heart can settle, and the soul can breathe deeply.

There is a particular magic in sitting within an April garden. A steaming cup of coffee cradled between hands, the scent of rich soil and budding flowers drifting on the air. The bees, those tireless harbingers of spring, move from bloom to bloom, a quiet reminder that the world is stirring. A robin perches on the fence post, tilting its head as if sharing a secret. Nearby, daffodils nod in agreement with the breeze. Life is no longer waiting—it is happening now, all around us.

April teaches us patience and presence. It does not demand, but rather invites. It whispers, Come outside. Look. Listen. The miracle of renewal is unfolding before our eyes, not in a grand, sweeping gesture, but in a thousand small moments—the slow stretch of ivy toward the sun, the raindrop clinging to a rose petal, the warmth of an afternoon that lingers just a little longer than the one before.

In the garden, the cycle of life is tangible. Seeds planted now will break through the earth in time, their growth a quiet testament to faith and care. It is a lesson April offers freely—what we nurture today will bloom tomorrow. And so, with each gentle tending of the soil, each pause to admire a new blossom, we are reminded of nature’s wisdom: change does not come all at once, but in whispers, in softened edges, in the slow but certain turning of the wheel.

Welcome to my garden of April delights. Sit a while. Breathe in the sweetness of possibility. Let the soft hum of the world waking up remind you that life, in all its beauty, is always beginning anew.

~Wylddane


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​When the Red-Winged Blackbird Sings

Spring always seems to come slow to the northwoods. It's a season that arrives not with a trumpet’s blare but with a whisper. Subtle. Steady. At times, it feels like winter's grip will never quite loosen, like the gray and brown of a thawing world might stretch on forever. But then, one morning, the ice is thinner, the snow patches smaller, and something stirs in the air. A change, almost imperceptible, but real.

Perhaps spring comes exactly when it’s supposed to.

As I gaze at this image—a stream cutting through bare and brambled brush under a softly painted sky—I can almost hear it. That first song. The one that cracks open the silence like sunlight spilling across a frost-covered field.

The red-winged blackbird.

Its song is not just a sound—it's an arrival, a proclamation. It tells me that winter has begun to retreat and the world is waking up again.

When I was young, I was fortunate to grow up by a lake. My parents’ home sat just above the shoreline, its windows catching the light off the water in every season. We had a boat, and in the shoulder days of spring—when the ice was still receding and the world looked bare, brown, almost sterile—we would stand outside and watch, listen, and wait. Because even in that seeming emptiness, life was everywhere.

The red-winged blackbirds returned each year with the wood ducks, the mallards, the geese, the coots. A feathered procession of the returning wild. But the blackbirds—with their unmistakable crimson epaulets—were like punctuation marks on the still-sleepy sentence of spring. Their song didn’t just fill the air; it announced something eternal. Something larger than any one season, any one life.

Now, many years later, I still listen for that song. And each time I hear it—whether in memory or in real time—I feel a kind of peace settle over me. It is a peace that transcends the hectic, often chaotic machinations of human life. While we scramble and strive and worry, nature carries on. Governed not by deadlines or ambition but by rhythm, instinct, and trust.

Is that not a metaphysical thing? That deep and abiding trust that the earth will warm, the waters will flow, and the red-winged blackbird will return?

There is solace in this. There is hope in this. There is a soft and powerful invitation to accept the eternal gift of cycles, of renewal, of return.

And so I listen. I listen not only with my ears but with my soul.

I love the song of the red-winged blackbird.

~Wylddane

The Rose That Never Fades

A rose in full bloom—the softest petals, the deepest gold—captured in a crystal vase. It’s a moment of perfection, but one that cannot last. As Douglas Malloch writes, “Its beauty fades, its glory goes, / I know no way to keep a rose.” And yet, he reminds us, there is a rose that blooms beyond the reach of time. It is the rose of love.

Not just romantic love, though that too is beautiful when nurtured. This rose lives in every act of care, every gentle word, every look that says, I see you. It’s the love between family members who weather storms together. It’s in friendships that pick up where they left off, even after time apart. It’s in the wag of a tail, the purr on a lap, the loyal gaze of a pet who needs nothing but your presence.

And it’s in the broader, deeper form of love--woke love, if you will. The kind that sees injustice and speaks. The kind that listens to the pain of others, not to fix it, but to say, You are not alone. This is empathetic love—an openhearted presence in a fractured world. The kind of love that doesn’t pretend all is perfect, but believes that healing begins in how we treat one another.

This love, like the rose in Malloch’s poem, needs tending. It grows in homes where morning smiles and goodnight kisses are the norm. But it also flourishes in small, consistent acts: the shared meal, the text that checks in, the space held for another’s grief. It lives in divided labors and shared burdens. It lives in kindness.

Love cannot bloom where harshness lives. As Malloch so plainly puts it, “The rose of love will bow its head / In rooms where angry words are said.” And in a world often quick to rage, to isolate, to divide, this is the reminder we need. The rose will brave winter skies, but it cannot survive cold hearts.

If we truly possess the rose of love—if we are blessed to hold it in our lives—it becomes our sacred duty to care for it. With tenderness. With presence. With empathy. And when we do, we change the very atmosphere around us.

Because love, in its truest form, is not static. It’s generative. It ripples. The love we give has a way of finding its way back—not always directly, but through echoes in the lives we touch. A kind word to a stranger. A listening ear. A warm meal. A hand reached out, even when we are tired. These are the ways we water the rose of love.

And when we focus on these kinds of love—family love, friendship love, the bond with a beloved pet, and love born of awareness and action—we change our world. Not with grand gestures, but in the gentle way we hold one another up. One rose, tenderly kept, becomes a garden.

So let us keep the vase of home—whatever “home” means to us—crystal clear. Let us look with caring eyes, speak with warm voices, live with open hands. Let us remember the rose we hold, and tend it daily.
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For there is one rose, the rose of love,
We need not know the fading of.
A rose that’s watered day by day,
We never need to throw away.

~Wylddane

(Text and Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)

Sanctuary at the River's Edge...

There are moments when the world feels loud—even when I am alone. The noise of worry, the static of uncertainty, and the ache of things beyond my control can fill the silence. But then there are places, like Nevers Dam Landing, where all of that quiets, and something far older and truer rises to meet me.

Once, this place was alive with the sounds of industry. The rumble of logs crashing, the creak of timbers, the shouts of men working the flow of commerce along the St. Croix River. That dam, once a symbol of human effort and ambition, is gone now. In its place: soft sandy beaches, the murmur of current flowing endlessly downstream, and the whispered conversation of leaves stirred by the wind.

The forests have returned. Trees lean tenderly over the water’s edge as if peering into their own reflections.

Birds sing without concern for anything but the joy of being alive. And I stood there recently, breathing it in—not just the fresh river air, but the stillness, the unspoken peace that soaked into the soil and shimmered in the sunlight.

In that moment, I gathered the quiet unto myself. I let it seep into the corners of my soul where the dust of worry sometimes gathers. I absorbed it—not just as a memory, but as a presence. A reminder. A truth. That peace is not the absence of trouble; it is the presence of something deeper, something eternal. A calm that exists within and around us if only we stop long enough to notice.
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The world continues its tumbling, chaotic dance. But I carry this stillness with me now—this river-moment, this forest-breath, this hush beneath the birdsong. Peace lives here, and now, it lives in me.

~Wylddane

I Am

My habit is to wake early, while the world is still wrapped in darkness and silence. It is in this pre-dawn hush that I find my center—before the hum of the day begins, before demands rise and scatter my attention. I move softly through the dim light, guided by ritual: the gentle strains of classical music drifting like a whisper from the speakers, the warmth of a mug cradled between my hands, the comforting scent of coffee rising with the steam.

This time is mine—a cocoon of peace, sacred in its quiet. I do not seek to analyze or interpret; I simply am.
This morning, as I sat still and watched the warm lights in the darkness, something shifted. There were no thoughts, no words. Just presence. Physical discomforts receded, and without prompting, a deep and certain knowing welled up from within.

"I Am."

The words did not come from my mind, but from my soul. They weren’t said out loud, yet I heard them. Felt them. Lived them. For a moment, I was the stillness. I was the breath. I was the awareness behind my eyes. Nothing needed to be added or explained. Just I Am.

That simple phrase held the universe within it.

In a metaphysical sense, "I AM" is more than a statement of existence—it is a declaration of essence, a reunion with the divine spark within. It is the bridge that connects the personal self to the universal consciousness, the thread that runs through all things. To say "I Am" with clarity and emotional conviction is to align with the creative power of being itself. It is a remembering—of who we are beneath the stories, the roles, the fears.

It is a claiming.

And this morning, I claimed it without effort. It arrived unbidden but unmistakably true.

Even now, as sunlight begins to stretch through the trees and dance across the room, I find myself clinging gently to that moment—not out of fear of losing it, but with reverence. It is a touchstone. A reminder.

"I Am"—not just in thought, but in being.
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And from that place, all things are possible.

~Wylddane

​The Hope of Spring: A Flowering Tree in My Yard

There is a flowering crabapple tree in my yard that stops me in my tracks every spring. Its delicate blossoms—clouds of pink and white—appear like magic after a long, weary winter. This tree is one of the things that first drew me to this house. I remember standing in the yard, looking up into its branches and thinking, Yes, this is home. Even then, I knew it would offer beauty and comfort with every changing season.

The flowering crabapple isn’t just a tree—it’s a signal. A gentle, radiant reminder that the world still knows how to bloom. And each year, no matter how reluctant spring seems to be in coming, those blossoms appear like clockwork. It’s as if the tree is whispering, Hold on. Light and warmth are on their way.

On this cold morning, when the ground is still hard and the wind carries the chill of winter’s breath, it’s easy to believe that spring might never come. This happens every year—this slow, stubborn season of in-between. We wait. We watch. We wrap ourselves in blankets and doubt. But still, spring comes. The sun shifts, the light lingers, and one morning we wake to birdsong and the sight of flowering trees.

Did you know that flowering crabapple trees trace their lineage back to the Silk Road? They originated in the mountains and meadows of Asia, carried over centuries by travelers and traders, planted in gardens across Europe and, eventually, brought to North America. There’s something deeply poetic about that—a living connection between continents, cultures, and centuries. A tree that has traveled the world to find its home in our backyards.

To me, each blossom on that crabapple tree is more than a flower. It is a beacon of hope. A small, living miracle that says: life renews. Beauty returns. No matter how harsh the winter, no matter how uncertain the times we’re living in, nature continues to offer its gifts. The flowering tree does not ask anything of us. It simply shows up, blooming bravely, reminding us what is possible.

And in these days, when it’s so easy to focus on the negative—the chaos, the heartbreak, the heaviness—it becomes all the more vital to shift our gaze. Darkness may demand our attention, but it does not deserve our devotion. Bad times do not last forever. The seasons prove this again and again. Winter fades. The blossoms return.

Someday, we will look back. We will be standing in a yard as petals drift gently around us, warmed by the sun, the scent of spring in the air. And in that moment, we will know this truth deep in our hearts: love, hope, faith, and positivity always triumph. They are the quiet forces that carry us through the storms, and they will carry us still.

Let us focus on these beacons of hope. Let us plant our attention like seeds in rich soil. Let us believe in spring—even before it arrives.

~Wylddane

The picture was taken several years ago, just after I arrived at the wee cottage in the woods. I remember the day clearly. There was a sense of newness in the air—both thrilling and tender. The roses in the photo, bold and alive in their terracotta pot, were among the first living things I planted here. I didn’t know then just how much they would come to symbolize the journey I was beginning.

This little place in the woods welcomed me at a time when I was letting go of a life I had loved deeply. It wasn’t a planned escape. It was simply time. And like a rose that sheds its petals to make way for new blooms, I had to release what was in order to discover what could be.

What I have learned is this: life is not a destination. It’s not a finish line we race toward. It is the journey itself—each moment, each step, each breath. And in that journey, there are infinite opportunities for discovery.

Not just of the world around us, but of ourselves. Who we are. Who we’ve become. And who we’re still becoming.

There is beauty in that becoming.

Here in the woods, I began to learn how to live again. Not merely to exist, or to keep busy, or to check boxes. But to live. To wake up with excitement fluttering in my soul, like birdsong through open windows. To listen to the wind in the trees as though it were an old friend whispering secrets. To find joy in simple things—a steaming cup of coffee, the dappling of sunlight through pine branches, the blooming of a rose.

This photo, with its soft edges and bright petals, is a reminder that even in the quiet, even in the unknown, beauty abounds. The roses bloomed then. And they bloom still. Not the same ones, perhaps, but new blossoms—born from the same roots.

That’s what this journey has been. A blooming. A relearning. A celebration of presence.

I no longer chase what’s next. Instead, I greet what’s now. And in doing so, I have discovered the miracle of today. Not perfect. Not predictable. But precious.
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So I return to this photo often, not to long for the past, but to honor it—and to remind myself that the roses of today are just as radiant. That I am still growing. Still unfolding. And that, in itself, is a life worth celebrating.

~Wylddane

Hope and faith are the twin lanterns that guide us through the darkness, the quiet whispers that remind us to keep moving forward even when we feel lost. There are moments in life when shadows seem too heavy, when discouragement settles upon us like a thick fog, obscuring the path ahead. It is in these moments that hope and faith are most needed—not as grand, dramatic gestures, but as gentle reassurances that light still exists beyond the gloom. Even when we cannot see the sun, we know it is there, waiting to rise again.

A beautiful sunrise is like a stained glass window looking into a radiant new day, each hue and beam of light a reminder that life continues, that new beginnings are always possible. The golden warmth spilling across the horizon is nature’s quiet promise that no night lasts forever. Hope is like that sunrise—sometimes subtle, sometimes blazing, but always present for those willing to look toward it. Faith is what allows us to trust in its return, even when our own sky remains dark.

Taking life one step at a time is an act of faith in itself. We often become overwhelmed when we gaze too far ahead, trying to predict outcomes, fearing uncertainty. Yet, if we center ourselves in the present moment, we find strength. The now is the only space where we truly live—where our breath flows, where our hearts beat, where our hands touch the tangible world. In the now, we gather our energy. In the now, we find clarity.

Appreciating this moment, no matter how small, is an act of hope, a declaration that life still holds beauty and meaning.

We can choose where we place our focus. We can dwell in despair, feeding the darkness, or we can dwell in hope, faith, and love, nourishing the light. What we nurture within ourselves will grow and shape our world. It is not about denying hardships, but about choosing what will define us. Negativity may be loud, but it is not eternal. Love, hope, and faith—they are the forces that endure. They are what truly prevail.

On a deeper level, our thoughts, emotions, and focus shape the reality we experience. When we hold faith and hope in our hearts, we begin to see a world that reflects them back to us. The more we attune ourselves to the goodness around us, the more it expands. Life responds to what we believe, to what we choose to embrace. If we see the sunrise as a promise, if we trust in the strength of the present moment, if we cultivate hope rather than despair, then step by step, day by day, we create a life illuminated by the light we choose to follow.

~Wylddane

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