Years ago, while walking through a quiet park in Pacifica, California—a place where the sea breeze meets the scent of eucalyptus and the sky seems always in motion—I paused to admire a simple white flower. I didn’t know its name then, and I still don’t. But something about it spoke to me. Perhaps it was the way it stood so gently in its place, delicate yet certain. I took a picture.

Later, I edited that image, shaping it into something new—something dreamlike. The flower now bloomed within a teardrop of glass, suspended like a raindrop catching light. Without giving it a formal name, I began calling it Captured Memories. It felt right. It still does.

This morning, I came across a quote that felt like a whisper from the past:

“Taking an image, freezing a moment, reveals how rich reality truly is.”  ~Anonymous

And indeed, is it not fascinating how a single image—a photograph, a painting, a glimpse—can unlock the door to a time long past? Suddenly we are there again. The sounds return, the light shifts back into its remembered angles, and for a moment, we are standing in that moment once more. The world hasn’t changed—we have. And yet, through the image, something stirs. Something eternal.

Sometimes, even more magically, we look at an image of a place we’ve never been, or a time before our own, and yet something in our spirit recognizes it. It touches a chord. Is it memory, or is it something deeper?

Some might dismiss it as imagination or sentimentality. But I call it magic. I call it the fabric of our lives.

Each picture is a tapestry thread—woven of light and shadow, scent and sound, emotion and breath. These are the moments that make us. These are the glimpses of joy and quiet reflection, of laughter caught mid-air, of eyes that once gazed back at us with love.

When I gaze at Captured Memories, I do not just see a flower in a park. I feel the air of that morning. I remember the walk. I remember who I was. And for a moment, I feel the quiet joy of being held in that time again.

But then, the gaze shifts—to now. The present. And I ask myself: What am I capturing today? What moments am I creating that may one day bloom inside a bubble of memory or a glistening photograph? Will these moments be rich with laughter? With peace? With love?

That, I realize, is entirely up to me.

Because today—this very moment—is tomorrow’s memory in the making. And if I live it well, with presence and gratitude, then it too will one day be captured… not just in images, but in the soul.
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"Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us."  ~Oscar Wilde

~Wylddane

  "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul—and sings the tune without the words—and never stops at all."  ~Emily Dickinson

This morning began with a softness, the kind only found in the quiet breath before dawn. The air was thick with humidity, promising the sticky embrace of a typical June day. Yet in that gentle, liminal hour—when the sky is still undecided between night and morning—I wandered through my garden. Dew clung to my feet, a cool and silvery balm, as if the earth itself had whispered blessings into the blades of grass.

And then, I saw it.

An iris, in full, glorious bloom. Its petals unfurled like a whisper of wonder—deep reds, vibrant pinks, soft purples, and a touch of glowing gold. My first thought was simple and pure: “How beautiful you are.” The kind of beauty that startles you into presence. That insists you forget, for a moment, the heaviness of headlines or the noise of worry. This flower—this delicate masterpiece of nature—was a gift. A vivid reminder that life still blooms, even in uncertain times.

In that moment, I was lifted to a different plane, away from fear and toward something far more sacred—hope.

There is power in beauty. Not the beauty sold to us or manufactured, but the kind that appears without pretense. The kind found in a single flower blooming quietly before the world wakes. That iris became a symbol, not just of the season’s richness, but of the possibilities each day holds. It reminded me that I am not just a passive observer in this life—I am a co-creator, a divine being walking the earth with spiritual gifts that matter.

I may not always know where my skills, my heart, or my hopes will be needed most. But I trust the inner compass, that sacred knowing within, to lead me to where light is needed. My task is not to control the outcome, but to move forward in faith—to offer my presence, my words, my creations—as seeds of peace.

Hope is not a fragile thing. It is resilient. It blooms in gardens. It lives in kindness. It survives the storms. And it is always waiting to rise again, just as that iris rose this morning—unexpected and radiant.

So today, I walk forward with trust. I release the pressure to have all the answers. I do what I can, from where I am, and then I let go. I surrender to divine timing, knowing that I do not walk alone.

And in the stillness, I hear it—a whisper from the universe, soft as morning light:

“Bloom where you are. The world needs your hope.”

~Wylddane

There are days when memory arrives like a gentle breeze—unexpected, tender, and deeply welcome. This morning, it was a pair of images that carried me back: the sun-dappled entrance to a garden, and an old black-and-white photo of a man reading to a child. Both evoke my father, who has been gone now for nearly fifty years, and yet, in so many ways, never left.

When I think of him, I see his hands—weathered and strong—shaping wood in his workshop, coaxing life from soil in the gardens he so lovingly tended. He was a man who found beauty in creation, in doing, in the quiet acts that spoke louder than words. There was no need for long speeches or emotional declarations.

The lessons came through the rhythm of his labor, the care he gave to the earth, and the attention he gave to me—especially in those moments when he read to me.

I don’t remember the exact stories, but I remember his voice. His presence. The sound of the pages turning. I remember how safe and loved I felt, curled beside him. Those early years gave me something unshakable.

As one writer once said: "There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his children, and gradually over the years, it gets to be long enough for them to pick up in their hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself."

As a teenager, that thread was stretched thin. We clashed, as fathers and sons often do, each of us certain of our rightness, neither willing to yield. But time, as it does, softened the sharp edges of youth. Now, with the perspective of years, I look back with understanding. With gratitude. With love.

I have come to realize that in many ways, I have become my father. Not in every detail, but in the essence of who I am. I take joy in the morning light, in the quiet of a well-tended garden. I find comfort in the feel of wood beneath my fingers, in the slow, steady work of creation. And I try to live by the unspoken values he modeled: honesty, integrity, and a quiet strength.

On this Father's Day, I honor not only my own father, but all fathers who shape lives with their presence—whether through whispered bedtime stories, soil-streaked hands, or simply by showing up again and again with love.

He is still with me. In the rustle of leaves in summer. In the scent of sawdust. In the softness of an old story remembered. And in the man I have become.
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“My father didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.”
— Clarence Budington Kelland

~Wylddane

“The soul is not where it lives, but what it loves.”
~Patricia Nell Warren

It rained last night. It rained all night. And as I sit here this morning, the rain continues—a steady whisper against the windowpane. Outside, the forest is cloaked in mist and shadows. The trees seem to lean into the moment, softened by the gray hush of a rainy morning. It is dark, it is gloomy. And yet—inside—it is anything but.

A fire crackles in the hearth, sending gentle waves of warmth across the room. A lamp glows with golden light, and on the table beside me, a mug of hot coffee steams beside an open book. Classical music flows through the stillness—Saint-Saëns, Tchaikovsky—providing a soundtrack to this quiet, contemplative hour.

There is something about mornings like this that make me both reflective and introspective. The past, with all its layered memories, seems to hover closer on days such as this. I welcome it. The memories are part of the fabric of who I am. Yet I do not live there. I am here. In this moment. In this room. On this rainy Saturday morning. And I am grateful.

This peaceful moment holds a truth I often return to: gratitude begins not in grand declarations, but in quiet awareness. The scent of coffee. The softness of firelight. The way music can reach into your soul and loosen the knots of yesterday. These are the simple treasures that shape a life well lived.

Dr. Wayne Dyer wrote, “Spend time close to home in awe over the simple treasures that make up your life.” That line echoes in my heart today. Awe, not just appreciation. A sacred recognition that ordinary moments are, in fact, extraordinary.

As I sit here, trying to give shape to these feelings with words, I’m reminded of something else I’ve come to understand: my joy comes from writing. My father was a gardener—hands in the earth, nurturing growth from seed to bloom. I have two dear friends who are gardeners of flowers and food. I, in my own way, am a gardener too. A gardener of words.

Patricia Nell Warren once called herself a “wordsmith,” but I like to think of myself as someone who tends to language with care—coaxing words into bloom, hoping they take root in a reader’s heart. When I’m writing, truly writing, I feel a deep and centered peace. I feel happy.
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Dr. Dyer also said, “Expand your reality to the point where you pursue what you love doing and excel at it.”

Yes. This is my Saturday intention. To write. To reflect. To grow. To pursue what brings joy, not only to myself but perhaps, in some small way, to others.
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Outside, the rain still falls. But inside, I feel the firelight of gratitude—steady, warm, and quietly glowing.

~Wylddane

I am an early morning person.

Before the world stirs, before the day unrolls its obligations and noise, I step quietly into the morning. The sky is soft with first light, the air fresh and cool like a clean page waiting to be written on. A mug of strong coffee warms my hands. The gentle strains of classical music float through the air—Mozart, perhaps, or Debussy—blending seamlessly with the birdsong, which is its own symphony of joy and presence. Cardinals, wrens, and robins sing the praises of another day simply because they are alive to greet it.

This is my meditative time. These early hours are not merely the start of a day—they are a sacred pause. A hush before life begins to clatter.

And yet, I must admit, there are mornings when I am reluctant to begin. I sit on the deck with coffee in hand and feel a shadow of heaviness. I can’t always explain it. Perhaps it's the residue of yesterday’s noise—the constant clamor of a world too often defined by conflict, cruelty, and confusion. Perhaps it is the ache of witnessing truth bent into shapes unrecognizable. The distortion of what should be simple: honesty, kindness, justice.

On those mornings, I find myself bemused by the weight pressing softly but insistently at my shoulders.

But thankfully, those mornings are rare. And when they do arrive, I’ve learned what to do. I shift the focus of my being. I close my eyes and breathe. I remind myself—gently, like a mother waking a child—that this moment is all that truly matters. I begin to count my blessings, not out of obligation but out of reverence. Health. Home. Love. The great triumvirate of grace. And then more—the sound of birdsong, the riot of red blooms beside the deck railing, the intricate curls of a wrought-iron chair warmed by the rising sun.

I give thanks for being here. For breathing. For being able to notice the beauty that surrounds me even in uncertain times.

There is a quote I hold close on such mornings:

"Perhaps the best way to have a full experience of life and love is to welcome all of it with an open mind and heart."   ~Anonymous.

And another, from Thich Nhat Hanh, whose words are as gentle as the dawn:

"Waking up this morning, I smile. Twenty-four brand new hours are before me. I vow to live fully in each moment and to look at all beings with eyes of compassion."

And so I smile.

And so, I breathe.
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And so, surrounded by birdsong and blossoms, I begin this day—with gratitude, with presence, and with hope.

~Wylddane

Yesterday, as I wandered through the garden paths, the brilliance of blue-violet caught my eye—a sudden shimmer against the green. I paused. There it was—the first wild iris of the season in bloom. Delicate yet strong, with petals like silk painted by twilight, the flower seemed to lift the entire garden into a moment of reverence. It was a quiet epiphany, the kind that calls not for words, but for presence.

The wild iris—specifically the Northern Blue Flag Iris (Iris versicolor)—is no stranger to the damp ditches and lakeshores of Northwestern Wisconsin. It grows with the confidence of something meant to be here, a native soul in the landscape. Though common in location, it is rare in beauty. Nearby, the elusive Dwarf Lake Iris (Iris lacustris) blooms only where sunlight meets shadow along ancient lakeshore forests. Both are silent witnesses to the rhythm of seasons, quietly blooming where they have always bloomed—regardless of whether we notice.

But the iris has long been noticed. Among the Ojibwe people of this region, the Harlequin Blue Flag Iris was not only admired—it was revered. Carried as a charm against snakes, used in poultices for wounds, steeped and crushed and inhaled to prevent illness, soothe aches, and even treat tuberculosis. Its scent, its root, its form—each part of the plant held meaning. Its usefulness arose not just from practicality, but from a deeper understanding of the natural world’s sacred intelligence.

Standing there, marveling at the bloom, I wanted to call out, “Look! Look at this lovely flower, this echo of history, this soft explosion of blue!” I wanted others to see its radiance, to feel the connection it offers—to culture, to earth, to spirit.

And then I heard the words of Thich Nhat Hanh gently rise in my memory:

“Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the whole earth revolves.”

The same could be said of looking at a flower.

Thich Nhat Hanh taught that mindfulness is not reserved for the cushion or the retreat, but belongs in every breath we take, every step we make. Walking, eating, even simply noticing—these become sacred acts when done in awareness. As I stood in my garden, breathing in the sight of that single iris, I was practicing exactly what he described: being alive to this moment.

And in this flower, the truth of interbeing revealed itself. The iris is not just a plant. It is sunlight, water, soil, memory. It is the breath of the deer who passed through last night, the blessing of the spring rain, the echo of Ojibwe hands who once carried it for healing. I, too, am part of this web, this living conversation of roots and sky. The iris blooms, and so do I.

In times as turbulent and uncertain as these, it becomes ever more vital to root ourselves in such awareness. Not as a form of escape, but as an act of resilience. As the world shouts and spins, we can choose to center ourselves in the simple miracle of now. We can allow beauty to strengthen us. We can draw courage from the deep traditions of those who walked before us, who knew that plants can be protectors, that silence can be medicine, that peace can begin with paying attention.

This morning, one wild iris bloomed. It was enough to remind me: everything is connected. Everything is alive. Everything matters.
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“In some Native languages the term for plants translates to ‘those who take care of us.’”
~Robin Wall Kimmerer

~Wylddane

In times of fear and rising tyranny, we look to the past not only for warnings—but for courage. We are often reminded that those who ignore the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them. And in this moment of reckoning, with a rogue government turning upon its own people, we must ask ourselves: what have we learned? What have we forgotten?

Let this image of a single white rose be more than a flower. Let it be a signal flare from the past—a call to remember and to resist. The white rose has long been a symbol of purity and moral courage. But more specifically, it echoes the bravery of the White Rose movement, a group of young German students and one professor who, at the height of Nazi terror, stood in nonviolent resistance to the regime. They did not raise arms. They raised their voices. Through leaflets and words scrawled in chalk on stone, they pleaded with their fellow citizens to wake up—to see the truth of what was happening around them, and to act.

Hans and Sophie Scholl, Christoph Probst, Willi Graf, Alexander Schmorell, and Kurt Huber were the core of this group. They were caught. They were tried in a sham court. And they were executed—guillotined—four days after their arrest. Yet their words live on. Their courage endures.

They remind us that the measure of a life is not always its length, but the clarity of its moral compass. They remind us that silence in the face of injustice is complicity. And they remind us that symbols matter. A single white rose can carry the weight of defiance. It can be a lantern in the dark.

In our time, there are again shadows gathering. Leaders who exploit fear. Institutions eroded. Rights stripped. Truth twisted. It is tempting to look away. But we must not.

As a symbol of our moral outrage at what is happening in our country, I am adopting the image of a single white rose. It represents not only resistance to tyranny, but faith in the better angels of our nature. Our country, for all its deep flaws, has always been a work in progress—a struggle between its highest ideals and its darkest impulses. But I always believed we were moving, however slowly, toward justice, inclusion, and shared humanity.

That path now feels threatened. Leaders who do not recognize that a nation’s people—all its people—are its greatest asset, are not fit to lead. Leadership must be rooted in service, not ego. In compassion, not cruelty. In truth, not propaganda.

Let the single white rose be our symbol. Our guidepost. Our whispered promise to one another: we will not look away. We will not be silent. We will remember the past, and in doing so, shape the future. A better one. A braver one. A freer one.
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“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”
~Martin Luther King, Jr.

~Wylddane

“Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.” – Thomas Jefferson (attributed)

Since moving to the Northwoods, I’ve often found myself drawn to the quiet symbols scattered across the land—ancient trees, forgotten fence lines, and weathered buildings tucked beneath wide skies. One such building caught my eye years ago. I’d pass it now and then, standing solemnly along a back road like a sentinel of forgotten time. It leaned slightly, wore its years like a weary pilgrim, and bore a green roof that once must have gleamed with purpose. A schoolhouse? A church? A town hall? I never learned for sure. In time, the roof sank, the walls buckled, and the structure collapsed under its own weight. And now, since this photo was taken, it’s gone—cleared away as if it had never been.

Is this not a metaphor for history?

What happens to the structures—physical and institutional—when we fail to care, to remember, to ask questions? When we let them erode unnoticed, only to realize their importance after they’re gone?

We often hear the old warning: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” And yet, we seem to be testing that truth with an almost reckless defiance.

I tried to find out what this building once was. Surely someone must have known. Surely it served a purpose—housed gatherings, educated children, hosted weddings, funerals, dances, decisions. And yet my search yielded nothing. Perhaps I didn’t dig deep enough. Or perhaps we’ve already allowed the memory to vanish.

And that is what frightens me.

In a time where ignorance is not just tolerated but weaponized—where libraries are shuttered, teachers threatened, history revised—I look at this image and see more than wood and ruin. I see democracy teetering. I see truth buckling beneath propaganda. I see our republic sagging under the strain of apathy and deceit.

There are forces at play now that echo the darkest chapters of human history. I do not say this lightly. Billionaires who wield power without wisdom. Politicians who parrot conspiracy and suppress truth. ICE raids in the dead of night. Human beings—neighbors—seized without due process. Laws twisted. Truth buried. Fear normalized.

This is how fascism grows—not with a sudden explosion, but with the quiet collapse of what once stood.

But here is what I believe with all my heart: those of us who care are the majority. Those of us who believe in dignity, decency, truth, compassion, and democracy—we are not few. We are many. And while fear isolates, truth connects. We must stay united, resolute, and courageous. We must speak out, vote, show up, and support one another. Evil thrives in silence and division—but it falters in the face of determined, unified resistance.

If the ruins are gone now, perhaps that too is a message. Not everything that falls must be forgotten. Some things must be rebuilt—with care, with memory, with intention.

History warns us. But it also invites us to become its stewards.
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Let this image be more than a symbol of loss. Let it be a call to vigilance, to curiosity, to courage. Let us remember what once stood—not just buildings, but values. And let us become the builders of what must now rise.

~Wylddane

This morning, as the sun gently crested the tree line and painted the sky with soft hues, I found myself once again drawn to the river. I have always been pulled toward water—whether it's the mighty ocean, a quiet lake, a secluded pond, or a bubbling stream. But it is the river that calls me most insistently. Perhaps because it is always in motion, yet somehow still. Always becoming, yet always being.

The St. Croix River is one of my favorite places on this Earth. This ancient waterway flows not just through land, but through memory, history, and soul. Formed more than a billion years ago, shaped by fire and ice, its path has been carved by time and marked by stories. Long before settlers arrived, the Ojibwe and Dakota peoples lived by these waters, listening to the language of the river, gathering rice from its banks, casting lines for fish, hunting game in the forest nearby. Their stories still echo in the breeze through the trees, and in the ripple of water along the wooden dock where I now sit.

Here, alone but never lonely, I absorb the rhythm of the river. Its slow, deliberate current speaks of strength—strength not through force, but through endurance. I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and let its quiet song settle over me. The chaos of the world slips away. The noise recedes. And I am reminded of something deeper. Something eternal.

“My memories are the gossamer threads of my life experiences, each strand tying one experience to another to weave a tapestry that is the picture of my life.

Each recollection connects my past experiences with the present. Some are tender, some can make me laugh, and some might bring a tear to my eye.

I give thanks for lessons learned, relishing the happy times and blessing and releasing any unhappy ones. All form the fiber of my being. They comprise the sum total of who I am, how I respond to present circumstances, and how I weigh the decisions I make for the future."

~ Anonymous

The river, like memory, flows in both directions at once—carrying me forward, yet anchoring me in what has been. I watch the reflections on the surface and realize they are much like the thoughts within me: some clear, some murky, some darting like fish in the depths.

We live in turbulent times. The voices of hate are loud. The winds of fear howl in the distance. But here, on this Saturday morning by the water, I know that this is not the full story. Just as the river has witnessed eons of change and still flows on, so too does the arc of the Universe bend—not toward division, but toward peace, love, and acceptance.

This morning meditation is not an escape. It is a return. A remembering. A sacred pause in the current of life where I rediscover who I am and what matters. And in that stillness, I find strength.

I rise with gratitude. The river still flows.

“Let the waters settle and you will see the moon and the stars mirrored in your own being.”
~Rumi

~Wylddane

​“The soul is the same in all living creatures, although the body of each is different.”
~Hippocrates

This morning, as the world gently exhaled the hush of night, I stepped into my garden. The sun had not yet risen, but the sky carried a soft, pearlescent light that seemed to hover rather than shine. Everything felt hushed and holy — as if the day itself were pausing in reverence before beginning.

I stopped to admire the blossoms—pale and golden in the pre-dawn glow. Their petals held the light like memory holds love, quiet and tender. A cardinal’s song broke the silence, bright and deliberate. Then an oriole joined in, its fluting notes weaving through the trill of a wren and the hearty, familiar greeting of a robin. Their music danced in the air, each bird offering its voice to the morning symphony.

Overhead, a flock of Canadian geese traced a V across the awakening sky, their calls a bold counterpoint to the melody below. They flew with purpose, their wings slicing the silence, heading toward the lake just a block away. Below them, at my feet, a cottontail rabbit appeared—calm, composed, unafraid. We shared the moment as fellow travelers, not as stranger and animal.

And in that quiet, sacred instant, a quote came to mind like a whisper from the universe: "I believe animals have souls; but I am unsure about some people."   ~Anonymous.

It struck me as both humorous and haunting. For standing there, embraced by the soft breath of morning and surrounded by creatures simply being what they are, I felt the truth of it settle into my bones. What if we have it all wrong? What if the soul isn’t a human invention, but the very essence that animates everything? The song of a bird, the trust of a rabbit, the bloom of a flower reaching for light — are these not expressions of soul?

Who are we, as humans, to presume dominion over the mystery of spirit? Must the soul wear a face like ours? Or is the soul simply the luminous thread that runs through all life — woven into feather, fur, petal, and leaf?

In that moment, the garden became more than a garden. It became a sanctuary. A place where I remembered, not for the first time and hopefully not for the last, that we are not the only ones graced with spirit. We are part of a vast, humming symphony of being. One that plays on regardless of our opinions, our titles, or our doubts.

The morning moved on, as mornings do. But I remained still a little longer, soul listening to soul, feeling the sacred pulse of life all around me—soft-footed, feathered, blooming, and blessed.

~Wylddane