Yesterday afternoon, the skies darkened and the wind howled through the treetops like a wild, unbridled spirit. Rain fell in heavy sheets, slamming against the windows of my wee cottage in the woods. Nature, in her untamed form, made herself known—loudly. A tornado touched down in a nearby town, and in my own neighborhood, trees were toppled like matchsticks. For two and a half hours, the power was out. The silence was eerie at first, heavy with uncertainty. But then came candles, conversations, and the quiet work of waiting.

When the storm passed, I stood by the window, gazing out at the changed landscape. Bent branches and downed trees littered the yards. And yet—there was also a sense of relief. The worst had passed. Crews were already at work, and neighbors emerged with chainsaws and kind words. Light returned, not just to the lamps, but to our spirits.

And now, the dawn.

The sky blushes with new light, painting the horizon in hues of amber and gold. The lake reflects it like a mirror, still and sacred. This is Sunrise at Coon Lake, a reminder that even after chaos, peace returns. I sit quietly with a mug of coffee in hand, listening to birdsong and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. The world feels gentle again.

There are life lessons here, whispered in the hush of morning. Storms come, as they always have and always will. They shake us, sometimes break us—but they also pass. What follows can be a quiet so deep and healing, it becomes sacred. To witness a sunrise after a night like yesterday’s is to understand resilience in its purest form.

This little cottage in the woods offers more than shelter—it offers perspective. It reminds me that peace is often found in the simplest of things: birds in the trees, light on the water, a warm drink in hand. These are not small comforts; they are anchors. They hold us steady through life’s sudden squalls.
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And so, with gratitude in my heart and the sun rising over Coon Lake, I begin again.

~Wylddane

This morning, as sunlight gently spills across the petals of the first May flowers, I am filled with quiet gratitude. I gaze at a single daffodil, its soft white petals cradling a golden center, as if it were holding the sun itself. Around it, the earth is waking—the birds are singing, the breeze is light, and I sit with a warm cup of coffee in hand, deeply aware of the blessing of this moment.

I have come to understand that thankfulness is not dependent on circumstance but on perspective. I am not a religious being, tied to dogma or ritual—I am a spiritual being, deeply connected to the rhythms of life, to the miracle of breath, of thought, of presence. I believe, deeply, in the power of the mind to shape experience. There’s a quote that echoes in me today: “Want to change your life? Change your thinking.” And I have seen it to be true. Our thoughts are not just passing notions—they are seeds. What we water grows.

Not long ago, I found myself in the sterile walls of a hospital, recovering from back surgery. I was thankful, yes, for the care and skill of those tending to me—but oh, how I longed for the sanctuary of home. I could feel it calling me: my own space, my window with its view of trees and flowers, the familiar comfort of stillness and scent and belonging. And now, I am here. I am home. And there is healing power in that—an invisible balm in the air, in the light, in the knowing that this is my space and I am safe.

To be thankful is to recognize the sacred in the ordinary. A daffodil blooming. The scent of morning coffee. The warmth of my own bed. The gentle rhythm of birdsong and breeze. These are not small things. They are everything.
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And so today, I do not rush ahead. I do not worry about tomorrow. I pause, and I say thank you. For life. For healing. For this breath, this light, this moment of grace.

~Wylddane

Sometimes, I like to wander.
Not with a destination in mind, but with a desire--
a quiet pull in my chest that says: go.
So I hop into my trusty car, cue up songs that know my heart, and take the roads less traveled—those winding backroads that seem to lead nowhere, and yet always bring me closer to something true.

It’s on these spontaneous pilgrimages that I find myself driving through dappled sunlight, windows down, the wind tousling my thoughts. I pass birch stands and meadows, glimpses of old barns leaning like elders with stories to tell. And then, suddenly, a turn I’ve never taken before reveals a hidden lake—still, deep blue, wrapped in a shawl of evergreens. Its surface holds the sky like a mirror, and in its reflection, I see more than trees. I see the quiet part of myself I sometimes forget.

I stop the car. I step out.
The world hushes.
Birdsong rises.
A deer watches from the edge of the forest, still as a prayer. Somewhere nearby, a raccoon scuttles through brush, and the breeze carries the earthy scent of pine and moss. In this sacred stillness, the noise of the world fades, and I remember how to be.

These places—the unnamed ponds, the unexpected rivers, the paths where no one walks—are not just landscapes. They are teachers. They remind me that I am part of something grand and generous. They ask nothing of me but presence. And in return, they offer belonging.
When I wander like this, I’m not lost. I’m found.

Because in the hush between miles, in the mirror of a lake no map could have shown me,
I don’t just discover nature.
I discover myself.
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~Wylddane

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Some mornings begin with cereal. Others begin with chocolate cake. And every so often, when the stars align—or more precisely, when kind neighbors like Marcy and Dave bring over something divine—life invites you to make a decadent decision.

Marcy is a marvelous baker. Everything she creates seems to emerge from her oven touched by a little magic. Her husband, Dave, jokingly claims the credit for her culinary masterpieces, and we all laugh, fully aware that his only role in the kitchen might be taste-testing. A few nights ago, they surprised me with a plate generously topped with slabs of rich chocolate cake, thickly frosted and crowned with crushed Heath bar.

Just looking at it felt like a celebration.

I had planned on a healthy breakfast the next day—something sensible like whole wheat toast with a polite dab of strawberry jam. But as I opened the fridge, the cake caught my eye and whispered, “Why not?”

And so, breakfast became a moment of joy. Moist, chocolaty indulgence paired with hot coffee and a smile that lingered longer than the frosting on my fork.

There’s a lesson in that unexpected morning: Yes, health matters. Yes, balance and responsibility are important. But being alive isn’t just about leafy greens and daily walks. It’s also about the occasional slice of cake for breakfast. It’s about embracing whimsy over routine, play over predictability, joy over duty. In short—it’s about living.

The whimsical moments, after all, are the ones we remember. Not the days we stuck to our diets or followed the rules, but the times we let loose, laughed, danced, or ate dessert before noon. These are the moments that color our lives with texture and delight.
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So here's to neighbors who bake, laughter that lingers, and mornings that surprise us with sweetness. May we all dare, from time to time, to choose the cake.

~Wylddane

(Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)

In the hush of early morning, before the world fully stirs, sunlight slips quietly between the trees, catching on the soft petals of a flower just opening to the day. The dew still clings, crystalline and glistening, each droplet a mirror reflecting the first golden rays. It is in this fleeting moment that I feel the world pause—and I, too, pause with it. A moment captured, a whisper of stillness in a noisy world.

The image before me is not just of a bloom—it is of captured sunlight. Light distilled into color and grace. Held gently in the tender cradle of a flower’s unfolding, it reminds me that beauty does not shout. It simply is.

And it is enough.

In times of turmoil, when the news blares and hearts feel heavy, this captured light is a balm. It centers me. It reminds me that peace is not something we must wait for, but something we can choose—again and again—in small, quiet moments. In the morning mug of coffee held warm between my palms. In the hush of breath shared with the trees. In the decision to smile, to be kind, to believe in good.

There is deep power in choosing to see the light.

Each moment we pause to witness beauty—like sunlight on a bloom—is a moment we shift the energy of the world. We realign ourselves with grace. With joy. With acceptance. We remind ourselves that even amid darkness, light not only endures, it finds a way to shine through.

Imagine what would happen if each of us captured such moments daily—if we sought them out like treasures, and shared them like blessings. The world might soften. Might lean toward love. Might become the garden of peace we dream it to be.

I believe it can. I believe it will.

And so, I return again to this image—this moment. This gift of golden light on a single bloom. And I carry its message in my heart:

Be still. Be kind. Be light.

Together, we can change the world.

~Wylddane

(Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)

Yesterday, I noticed the wild violets have begun blooming in my yard—small splashes of soft blue and purple nestled among the early spring green. Their petals, delicate and bright, seem to sing a quiet hymn of resilience, a gentle herald of the season’s awakening. There is something deeply comforting about their return each year, as if spring herself has dropped little notes of encouragement onto the earth.

The Ojibwe people, in their deep wisdom and connection to the natural world, called these plants waawiye-bagag, a name inspired by the rounded shape of their petals and leaves. To them, these violets were not only beautiful but practical—both food and medicine. The leaves and flowers were used to treat colds and headaches, a gift from the land not just in sight, but in substance.

Today, many people dismiss wild violets as nothing more than weeds—invaders in their manicured lawns. But I do not. I let them spread freely, weaving their color and charm throughout my yard. To me, they are not intruders. They are guests of honor. Spring has chosen them, and so have I.

There’s a quiet metaphor blooming alongside these violets. In the rush to control, to standardize, to beautify according to narrow ideals, we often forget that diversity is nature’s greatest artistry. Just as we rip out violets for not being grass, we too often dismiss people for not being like us—for their color, their traditions, their languages, their beliefs. We call them “other,” and from there, it’s a short and tragic path to considering them unwanted.

But oh, what we lose when we do that. A garden of only one kind of plant is not a garden—it is a field. It lacks the music of difference, the beauty of unexpected hues. Our world, like my yard, needs its wild violets. It needs the bold, the tender, the different. It needs those who do not fit into tidy boxes. The so-called weeds often carry the oldest wisdom and the most healing.

Let the violets bloom. Let the world bloom. May we grow more comfortable with otherness—not as a threat, but as an invitation to expand our hearts.
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And as spring unfolds its petals, may we, too, open gently to the lesson it offers: that all are part of the garden, and all deserve to bloom in peace.

~Wylddane

From the window of my old home in Pacifica, California, I once looked out upon a view that wrapped me in comfort—framed by pine branches and golden light, hills rolling like a lullaby into the embrace of the ocean fog. That view, now a painting, still sings to me. It holds laughter and the clink of glasses at Surf Spot, candlelit conversations at Barolo, the simple comfort of warm dishes shared at Tam’s. It holds the voices of those I hold dearest—friends who are more than friends, chosen family whose presence marked birthdays, holidays, and the quiet in-betweens. Together we feasted not only on food and wine, but on love, on joy, on the gift of being together.

Looking at the painting, I can almost hear it again—the sea breeze rustling the trees, the hum of a guitar from the Surf Spot stage, the burst of laughter from a shared story, a remembered toast to life and its tangled wonder. These aren’t just memories; they are pieces of my soul, carefully woven into the fabric of who I am.

And yet, life, ever flowing, moved me onward—northward—to a wee cottage in the woods where the pine trees are taller, the silence deeper, and the seasons more intimate. It is spring now. The northwoods are awakening with a hush and a hymn. A redwing blackbird calls from the edge of the marsh, robins sing their morning songs, and the air carries the promise of warmth. It may reach 80 degrees today, and already the sun slants through the trees in a golden hush that feels like blessing.

I know I cannot live in the past. But I also know I don’t need to. Because those moments—the ones etched in shared meals and deep conversation, in gentle glances and celebrations of life—still live within me. They don’t tether me; they steady me. They remind me of how fully I have lived, and how much more there still is to live.

Today, as birdsong rises with the light, I sit with gratitude. For the Pacifica days and the northwoods now. For the friends who shaped me, and the solitude that shelters me. For the memories that linger like the scent of salt and eucalyptus, and for this brand-new morning blooming just outside my window.
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It is a new magical day. And I am here, heart full, listening to the past, loving the present.

~Wylddane

Daylight comes earlier now. The long shadows of winter mornings have softened, and a gentle brightness seeps into the room before I’ve finished my first sip of coffee. I sit quietly, cradling the warm mug between my hands, watching the world awaken outside my window.

My cat perches in the sill, still as a statue yet alert in every muscle. She gazes outward, eyes wide and focused. What does she see? Squirrels scampering across branches? Birds flitting from feeder to tree? A chipmunk darting beneath the fence line? Perhaps she sees more than I can ever guess. Her ears twitch slightly. What does she hear? The rustling of leaves stirred by a soft breeze? The warble of a robin greeting the day? The sharp chatter of a gray squirrel staking its claim?

What does she smell? I imagine the earthy scent of damp soil, the subtle perfume of lilac on the wind, the whisper of newness that rides on spring air.

Though her senses differ from mine, we are both engaged in this quiet ritual. She, intent and curious; I, contemplative and still. We are participants in the unveiling of morning.

I hear birdsong—though my sleepy eyes have yet to find the source. I let the music of it wash over me, layering it onto the canvas of this moment. There is something sacred in this early hush, something holy in the simple act of being present.

I wonder what the day will bring. And yet, in this very moment, I am not concerned with tasks or timelines. I am simply here—savoring the miracle of morning, this precious blink of time that so often slips by unnoticed.
I give thanks. For this mug of coffee. For the cat beside me. For birds I can hear but not yet see. For the light filtering through trees. For another chance to begin again.

It is the start of a new and wonderful day.

~Wylddane

Gratitude in the Morning Light

This morning, as I opened the drapes, a soft golden light spilled into the room. The sun, gentle and curious, peeped through a veil of clouds, casting long, dappled shadows across the landscape outside my window. It was the kind of light that hushes the soul and stirs the heart awake. I paused and whispered aloud, “It’s a beautiful morning. Thank you.”

Gratitude often arrives in moments like these—not with fanfare, but with quiet grace. There are so many things to be thankful for, and when I allow myself to name them, they bloom in my heart like wildflowers: good health, the warmth of a cozy home, the simple ritual of morning coffee (especially that!), the love of friends who are like family, and family who are dear friends. These are the riches of life, and I count them gladly.

As steam rose from the mug in my hands, I felt the comfort of familiarity and the gift of a new beginning. It is a new day. It is my day. What am I going to do with it? That question holds within it both the freedom and the responsibility of being alive. To be present. To be kind. To notice the beauty. To be grateful.

I remember the wise words of Rev. Maureen, a beloved minister from years ago, whose voice still echoes in my heart. She used to say, “Live life with an attitude of gratitude.” It wasn’t just a catchphrase—it was a way of seeing. A way of being. Gratitude, she taught, wasn’t reserved for grand moments. It was found in the ordinary and the everyday—the slant of morning light, the quiet of a home before the world stirs, the warmth of hands wrapped around a mug.

And so I sit, looking out at the golden scene framed by my window, and I choose gratitude. Not because everything is perfect, but because so much is precious.

Thank you, morning light.
Thank you, coffee steam.
Thank you, Rev. Maureen.
Thank you, life.

~Wylddane

Sunlight, Trees, and Shadows

As I cradle a warm mug of coffee in my hands and gaze out the window, morning unfolds in soft gold and hush. The sun filters through still-bare branches, casting long, intricate shadows that stretch like fingers across the dewy grass. It is the dawn of a new day. Not just any day—this is the dawn of a new spring day.

The trees stand like quiet sentinels, their leaves still curled tight in budding promise. The gardens, not yet in bloom, lie silent beneath their winter blankets. And yet—I can feel it. Life rustles under the fallen leaves. A whisper of green. The soft stirrings of a world waking up again.

There is so much beauty in this moment. So much promise. And yet, even as I bask in the gentleness of morning light, a question floats up from the deeper places of my heart: How do we hold on to this beauty when the world grows dark? When cruelty seems loud, and kindness a whisper?
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The answer isn’t simple, but it begins with focus. What we focus on expands.

The world will always hold shadows—but it also holds light. And in the interplay between the two, meaning emerges. Shadows exist only because light is present. So let us choose to focus on the light. On the trees that root us. On the shadows that dance with morning’s golden beams.
Let us choose to believe that beauty matters. That goodness still blooms. That love, empathy, and awareness—what some call being woke—are not naïve, but necessary. These are the seeds of hope, and hope is not a fragile thing. It is resilient. It pushes up through cold soil. It waits patiently under snow. It dares to bloom again and again.

So when the world is heavy, when the headlines scream despair, we must return to what is true. We must hold on to sunlight, trees, and shadows. We must remember the quiet strength of spring, the soft courage of beginnings.
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There is still so much good in this world. And the arc of love, of justice, of kindness and connection—it bends toward healing. It bends toward light.
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So let us rise with it.

~Wylddane

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