It rained last night.

As I was settling into bed, I heard the distant boom of thunder echoing like a low drum across the hills, followed by the steady percussion of raindrops tapping on the roof. A lullaby composed by the sky. I drifted into sleep to its rhythm—deep, undisturbed, and wrapped in the kind of comfort my mother once called “good sleeping weather.” She was right.

Now it is morning.

Very early. The world is still stretching awake. A golden hush fills the garden as sunlight filters through the trees in radiant slants, bathing the grass and the damp earth in soft illumination. The leaves shimmer with quiet gratitude. There’s a sense that everything is exactly as it should be, at least for now. It is a moment of perfect harmony.

And I am thinking of that word--harmony.

When the world feels loud and overwhelming, when headlines scream and tempers flare and everything seems perched on the edge of unraveling, I return to this. To this simple scene. To this ancient music of nature that plays on whether or not we choose to listen. In the hush after a storm, in the rustle of leaves, in the pulse of morning light—harmony reveals itself.

It’s not just poetic. It’s elemental. Harmony is built into the architecture of the universe. I see it in the design of spiderwebs, in the patient cycles of the moon, in the symbiotic dance of pollinators and blossoms, in the way trees breathe in our breath and return it as life. It’s all connected. Nature is not in conflict with itself. It moves in rhythms, in balance, adjusting and readjusting with grace.

This gives me hope.

As my life shifts—sometimes gently, sometimes abruptly—and as the world staggers through uncertainty, I remind myself that harmony is not a fantasy. It is a possibility. Not a static peace, but a dynamic balance.

Just as the Earth tilts, spins, and travels through changing seasons, we too evolve. We learn, we heal, we reconnect.

I believe the desire for harmony is planted deep in the human heart. We are not separate from nature; we are part of it. And when we return to it—walk among the trees, listen to the rain, rise with the sun—we remember something ancient and true. We remember how to be.

This morning, standing in my garden, the light warming my face and the memory of last night’s rain still fragrant in the air, I feel it again. That gentle assurance. That quiet promise.

Harmony is always possible. Even when it feels far away.
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“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.”  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

~Wylddane

It is a beautiful summer morning in the garden. The air is still, as if listening. I stroll, coffee in hand, stopping here and there amid the riot of color—a kaleidoscope of coneflowers, lilies, clematis, and all manner of green, alive things. Birdsong floats like ribbons through the air, weaving itself into the tapestry of dawn.

A coneflower catches my eye, radiant and unbothered. The golden-pink petals lean slightly, basking in sunlight that, only hours from now, will slip behind a distant hill on the other side of the world. I pause, and in that pause I remember: the sun that rises to greet me is the very same that whispers goodnight to someone else.

In this simple garden, I am immersed in wonder. The rabbit that visits often is nibbling clover in the shade.

The black kitty with white paws stretches luxuriously beneath the hydrangea, glancing at me with those eyes that seem to know more than they let on. The three of us, in shared silence, make peace with the morning.

And I think of transcendental idealism—of Kant, who argued that space and time are not qualities of the world itself, but of the way we experience it. That all we know of reality are appearances filtered through the mind’s lens. The flower I see may not be a flower as it truly is—it is my perception, my arrangement of color and form and memory and feeling. If that is so, then this moment, this rabbit, this kitty, even this coffee—they are not real in any ultimate sense. And yet…

They are everything.

I drift from blossom to shadow, from sunlight to memory, and thoughts arrive without knocking. I hear echoes of Dr. Wayne Dyer’s voice: “Expand your reality to the point where you pursue what you love doing and excel at it.” Is this the path? Is this garden morning—this moment of wandering presence—part of that pursuit? I do not know.

But I am.
I am this breath.
I am this gaze upon petal and leaf.
I am this curious, grateful soul wandering barefoot among green miracles.
I am not separate from this garden—I am this garden.
I am not apart from the birdsong—I am the song.
I am not watching the light—I am the light.

And maybe, just maybe, the lines between the real and the perceived are not boundaries at all, but brushstrokes in a larger painting. Whether divergent or convergent, the thoughts themselves are not the point—the wonder is.
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It is, in every way, a grand and glorious day to be alive.

“You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.”  ~Rumi

~Wylddane

“Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year.”   ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

This is one of those mornings when the sheer brilliance of the world feels almost too beautiful to absorb. The sun rises not with indifference but with intention—casting golden rays like benedictions through the trees.

The garden stirs softly beneath its touch, each flower unfolding as if in prayer. A single rabbit pauses in the light, still and alert, as though aware of the sacredness of this moment. And I, too, pause.

There is a magical clarity to the air—a kind of sparkling presence that asks nothing and offers everything. As I stand just inside the open French doors, watching light and life spill forward like a gentle flood, I am reminded of the Buddha’s wisdom: “Every morning, we are born again. What we do today is what matters most.”

Today is not yesterday. Nor is it tomorrow. It is now. Fresh. Unspoiled. Wonderfully mine.

I breathe in the sweet scent of lilies and damp earth. I listen to the hush before birdsong and the quiet rustle of clematis vines climbing toward light. Nature does not question the dawn; it embraces it fully. So too, I allow this new day to seep into me—body, mind, and spirit.

Yes, the drums of evil may throb in distant corners of the world. The clamor of cruelty, ignorance, and fear may march on relentlessly. But this—this moment, this sacred golden hour—is stronger. What is right, what is good, what is empathic, loving, and true always has been. And always will be.

Heraclitus wrote, “The sun is new each day.” And so am I.

The beauty of this morning beckons not just my eyes but my soul. It invites me into a deeper knowing, a metaphysical awareness that life is not only what we see but what we choose to feel, what we choose to be.

I meditate on the wonder of it all: the harmony of light and life, the quiet companionship of nature, the quiet power of a heart aligned with love. However this day unfolds—whether filled with work or wandering, laughter or solitude—it is mine. A singular gift. A quiet miracle.

And it is wonderful.
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"Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me."  ~Henry David Thoreau

~Wylddane

“Every sunset brings the promise of a new dawn.”  ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

"A picture is worth a thousand words." Perhaps Confucius did say it, or perhaps it’s simply one of those truths that transcends authorship. Because last night, as the sky blazed with layered color—amber, lavender, indigo, gold—this image spoke to me not in words, but in feeling. It hummed. It sang. It was, quite simply, a symphony.

Yesterday was one of those perfect summer days that settles gently into the heart. It began with a slow and joyful glide across a northern lake on a pontoon boat—coffee warming our hands, laughter lingering in the morning air, baked goods passed between friends, fresh fruit bursting with summer sweetness. The shoreline drifted past in reverent silence as loons called across the water and pine trees whispered in the breeze. It was one of those rare moments where time seemed to pause, allowing us to simply be—present, whole, and grateful.

And then, at the end of the day, came this gift. This sunset.

When it arrived on my phone—sent by someone who shared in the magic of the morning—it struck me with such quiet force that I sat still for a long while, just absorbing its glow. This wasn't just a photograph. It was a benediction. A remembering. A promise.

The lake had stilled, reflecting the golden sky like a mirror of peace. The clouds, painted in swirling brushstrokes of twilight, seemed alive with motion and music. I imagined the earth exhaling, the light lingering as if reluctant to let go of the day. The picture captured more than color or shape—it captured essence. The kind of essence that makes you whisper "thank you" to no one and everyone at once.

And as I gazed at it, I thought: this is not just the end of a day. Somewhere, right now, the sun is rising. Morning is stretching and yawning into being. The world is cycling forward, carried by the quiet faith of rhythm and return.

That’s the promise of sunset: the certainty of dawn.

In this one captured image, I found all of it—the laughter of the morning, the silence of the lake, the warmth of friendship, the stillness of the woods, and the gentle truth that nothing beautiful is ever truly gone. It simply changes form, shifts light, becomes memory, becomes hope.

And so the sun sets. And so it rises.
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And in the hush between those two moments, we live.

~Wylddane

“Sometimes I need only to stand wherever I am to be blessed.”  ~Mary Oliver

In the tender hours before dawn, I often find myself drawn into the quiet embrace of my garden. It is a spirit-soothing ritual—one that begins while the world still slumbers and the first light of day is held gently behind the horizon. Barefoot or slippered, coffee in hand, I wander among green leaves and blooms, letting the stillness guide me back to myself.

This morning, like so many others, the garden greeted me with a symphony of birdsong. Warblers, robins, finches—each note a reminder that life still stirs, that something sacred remains. A cottontail rabbit, my silent morning companion, nibbled nearby in the cool shade. We are familiar to one another now, fellow seekers of peace.

And then—like a celestial curtain rising—the first golden beams of sunlight slipped through the trees and across the trellis. They found the deep purple clematis blooms clinging to their wooden frame, illuminating their velvet petals as if nature herself had lit a candle against the darkness. I paused there, in front of those blooms, my heart stirred by their beauty—and heavy with sorrow.

Because despite this splendor, my thoughts were anything but still this morning. They arrived jumbled and jagged, echoing the chaos of the world beyond my garden gate. I found myself unable to summon the usual joy for Independence Day. The idea of celebration felt hollow—no fireworks could distract from what has become of the country I once held dear.

I never imagined I would live to see the day when this nation would build camps that echo the darkest parts of history—yet here we are. Florida’s cruelty is not an outlier; it is a symptom of a greater unraveling. We cloak our atrocities in legality and flags, but a cage is still a cage, no matter how brightly it is painted.

Yesterday I came across a list of the world’s freest nations. Finland was first. Canada fifth. The United States? Fifty-seventh. I wasn’t surprised. Saddened, yes. Angered, yes. But not surprised. Freedom here has become an illusion—a word whispered in anthem and pledge, yet stripped of meaning in practice. The truth is stark: many of us are not free. Not truly.

And yet—I return to the clematis. To the rabbit. To the birdsong. To this small patch of earth that reminds me who I am. In this sacred space, I remember that mourning and beauty can coexist. That despair does not cancel out hope—it merely demands that we work harder to find it.
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I may not feel like celebrating a nation today, but I can celebrate this morning. This moment. The resilience of flowers. The quiet dignity of a rabbit. The healing power of a garden. And maybe, just maybe, in these small acts of reverence, I reclaim a freedom that no government can give—or take away.

~Wylddane

“The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep.”  ~Rumi

There is a hush that blankets the world in the earliest hours—a sacred stillness that belongs only to those who rise before the day begins. As I step outside with my first mug of coffee warming my hands, I feel the quiet embrace of morning wrap around me like a well-worn shawl. The garden still glistens with dew, its colors softened by the pale silver of dawn, and just beyond, the woods beckon—ancient, shadowed, alive.

Each morning walk begins with no agenda. I let my feet lead the way, sometimes pausing among the lilies or the hostas, other times drawn past the garden’s edge into the woods that border my world. The trees rise tall and sure, guardians of time and memory. Their trunks are brushed with the gentle light of a sun not yet seen, and the forest floor, still damp with the breath of night, yields softly beneath each step.

“There is something magical about the early morning,” wrote Shawn Blanc, and he was right. In these quiet moments, I feel like the world is mine alone. No traffic, no headlines, no chatter—just birdsong, the rustle of leaves, the distant scurry of a squirrel, and the rhythmic beat of my own breath.

Sometimes I pause to think, to reflect. Other times, I simply walk, letting the rustle of the woods and the warmth of coffee guide me into deeper presence. Nietzsche once said, “All truly great thoughts are conceived while walking,” and perhaps that is why these early strolls feel like communion—where thoughts arise not as worries, but as wonder. There is no better philosopher than a quiet forest and no better listener than a bird on a branch.

As the light shifts from blue to gold, the world begins to stir. A breeze picks up. A ray of sunlight slices through the canopy. And I am reminded of Marcus Aurelius’s words: “When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive—to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love.” And I do. I think of all that is good and true and beautiful. I give silent thanks.
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And so the day starts.
And so my day starts.
Peacefully. Quietly. Presently.

~Wylddane

This morning, before the sun lifted its golden face above the horizon, I stepped quietly onto the deck. The sky held the hush of early dawn, a muted canvas between night and day. In that gray-blue stillness, I saw them—red blossoms, touched by dew, glowing with a richness that defied the hour. I raised my camera and captured them, their beauty a small act of defiance against the sorrow that had wrapped itself around the early hours of my mind.

I had awoken at 3 a.m.—not to the call of the day, but to the call of worry. The thoughts that swirled in the dark were not personal, but they pierced just the same. I thought of this country I love—the United States of America—and the deep, bleeding wound it suffers. A convicted felon allowed to steal an election. A high court so lost to ideology it no longer bends to the Constitution, but to its own dangerous whims. Rights chipped away. Truth distorted. Justice mocked.

In those hours before light, it is easy to feel despair.

But even as those thoughts whirled through my heart, I knew they were not the whole story. I cannot control what happens in the halls of power, but I can control how I live, how I love, how I show up in this world.

Change does not roll in on the wheels of inevitability—it comes through us. Through steady steps. Through quiet courage. Through refusing to give up on what is right, even in the shadow of wrong.

I thought of my parents, my grandparents, my uncles, aunts, cousins—those who lived through and fought in World War II. There must have been days when the axis of evil felt unstoppable to them too. But it was stopped. Not by magic, but by determination. By faith. By people who refused to surrender. The same spirit rises now, even as new forms of tyranny wear old, hateful masks.

One step at a time. One candle against the darkness. One flower blooming before dawn.

And then I remembered the words of James Dillet Freeman. Words that have met me in the darkest corners of my life and still stir the deepest chambers of my soul:

"You cannot see Me, yet I am the light you see by...
I am assurance. I am peace. I am oneness.
Though your faith in Me is unsure, My faith in you never wavers...
Beloved, I am there."

Yes. Even in fear, I am not alone. Even in grief, I am not forsaken. Even when I tremble at what the world is becoming, I hold steady because I am not holding alone.

There is power in remembering: the night is not eternal. The sun will rise. It always has. And even when I cannot see it, even when clouds of despair roll in, the sun is still there—just as love is still there. Just as faith is still there.

I took a picture of those flowers this morning, blooming as if they knew. And maybe they did. Maybe they were whispering the truth we all need to hear:

You are not powerless. You are not alone. The dawn will come. Keep going.

One step at a time. One small act of courage at a time. One blossoming moment of hope at a time.
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We will prevail.

~Wylddane

Yesterday morning, just before the skies opened and gifted us a full day of rain, I paused at the gate to my gardens. There, blooming in quiet elegance, was the clematis—deep violet petals unfurling like a whisper of joy, untouched by the coming storm. I took a picture, knowing this moment—this stillness—would soon dissolve into the hush and rhythm of rainfall. There’s a strange kind of peace that lives on the edge of a storm.

And then the rain came. Steady. Relentless. Soft and drenching all at once. It rained through the day and into the night, soaking the earth, coaxing the green to deepen and the flowers to bow in reverence.

Today promises more of the same. A gray sky hangs low, as if inviting me not to rush. Not to do. But simply to be.

This day, I may meander. No plans. No destinations. Just the soft tap of rain on my jacket and the pull of something wordless that calls from within. I may walk through puddles. I may stop under the arbor where the vines drip like chandeliers of silver. I may linger beside the clematis again and marvel at how it endures—radiant even in the wet.

Dr. Wayne Dyer wrote, “Inspiration doesn’t come from completing tasks or meeting goals; in fact, that’s the sure way to have it elude us. Returning to Spirit . . . is an experience of living fully in the present moment.” And in this rain-soaked day, there is no to-do list, no destination. Only the dance of droplets and the soft murmur of the earth breathing.

I walk. I pause. I listen.

There is a grace to meandering. A surrender. We’re taught to strive, to accomplish, to arrive. But as Dyer reminds us, “Our purpose is not to arrive at a destination where we find intention, just as the purpose of dancing isn't to end up at a particular spot on the floor. The purpose of dancing...and of life...is to enjoy every moment and every step, regardless of where we are when the music ends."

So I dance a little today—with the rain, with the breeze, with my own thoughts. I wander. I let the day unfold like the clematis itself—slow, deliberate, and full of quiet beauty.

And in that sacred meandering, I find something far more precious than progress.
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I find presence.

“Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.”  ~Anonymous

~Wylddane

On a hot summer afternoon sometime around 1961, three boys stood together on a gravel backroad in rural Wisconsin. They were thirteen—young enough to believe in endless possibility, old enough to begin wondering what the future might hold. One wore glasses and had dark hair; the other two—one blonde, one brown-haired—stood beside him, their Schwinn bikes gleaming red, green, and blue in the dappled shade of a tree-lined lane. The world stretched out before them, wild and unwritten.

Their names were Mike, Terry, and John. That summer was a symphony of freedom—choruses of laughter, the click of gears, and the crunch of gravel beneath rubber tires. They wandered the sun-warmed backroads, far from the watchful eyes of parents and the weight of expectations. One golden afternoon, they paused beneath the sheltering trees and let their imaginations drift toward the future. The year 2000 loomed like a shimmering mirage on the far horizon. They did the math, figuring how old they'd be by then. They laughed, half in disbelief, at the thought of being in their fifties. What would they be? Who would they become?

Terry, quiet and sure, thought he might be a farmer like his father. Mike was uncertain, content in the moment. And me? I said I wanted to go to college, to see the world beyond the county line. And I did. I went. I ended up in northern California. Terry stayed close to the land that raised him, in Wisconsin. Mike built his life in Indiana.

Memories are peculiar creatures. Some are always near, like old friends. Others wait in the shadows, slipping forward unbidden. Lately, this one—this memory of that summer day—has found me often. Perhaps it’s the rhythm of the rain outside, or perhaps it’s the long view of a life mostly lived. I miss them—my friends. And I miss the boy I once was. The one with sun on his face, wind in his hair, and the whole world waiting.
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Now, so many years later, only one of us remains. Just me. Remembering. And on this soft, rainy day, it feels like no time has passed at all. As if three boys are still standing on a shaded road, bikes at their sides, dreaming aloud.
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“Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.”   ~Dr. Seuss

~Wylddane

This morning, I woke to a splendid new day. Light filtered softly through the curtains, and for a moment, the world held its breath—quiet, expectant, sacred. With my first warm mug of coffee in hand, I stepped outside, barefoot and grateful, into the green hush of early morning. The air still held the scent of dew and possibility. And there, nestled among the blades of grass, I saw them—my daylilies had begun to bloom.

Stella D’Oro, they’re called. Stars of gold. And truly, they live up to their name. Their buttery yellow blossoms opened like little suns, lighting the garden from within. No fanfare, no announcement—just radiant, humble beauty born anew.

I stood still and let the moment unfold. The petals shimmered in the morning light, as if they whispered an ancient truth: that life, in its quiet simplicity, is wondrous. That each day holds within it a spark, a bloom, a beginning.

In the presence of these golden stars, I felt my soul lift to a different plane. A space where peace breathes easily, where joy is not something chased but something noticed. And I was reminded of this:
Appreciate the simple pleasures.
Notice the way light touches a flower.
Feel the breeze on your cheek.
Hold dear the connections that root you to love and to life.

Each of us holds within a quiet, sacred power. The ability to shift, to choose, to begin again. You have the power to create positive change in your life. Believe in your abilities. Trust the shape of your journey. Let the old doubts fall like petals in the wind, and let your heart lean into hope.

Today is a gift—life unfurling one hour at a time. Take a moment to appreciate all the good things: your breath, your strength, your friendships, your memories, your dreams. Let gratitude be the soil in which you root your day.

And so this wondrous new day begins.

May it be filled with joy that rises like morning light.
May it shimmer with the magic found in fleeting moments.
May peace settle gently within each hour.
May love flow from you like sunlight through petals.

Let this new day bloom.
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“Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.”  ~Kahlil Gibran

~Wylddane