​Whenever I see a rose—whether it be an actual bloom or an image—I feel something deep inside me stir. It is not just the appreciation of its beauty, though that is undeniable. It is something more, something tied to memory and meaning. A single rose can transport me through time, bridging moments of my past with the present, reminding me of love, laughter, and the fleeting nature of time.

One particular rose—a single white bloom—has stayed with me in a way that surprises me even now. I took the photograph during a wine-tasting afternoon at Jessie's Grove in Lodi, California. The sun was warm, the air fragrant with the mingling scents of oak trees and vineyards stretching endlessly in every direction. My friends and I sipped rich, velvety wines, laughing and enjoying the simplicity of that perfect day. Then, amidst the rustic charm of the vineyard, I saw it: a single white rose, luminous in the golden afternoon light. Something about it—the way its petals curled so gently, the contrast of its softness against the rough, weathered wood of the garden fence—captured my attention. I snapped a picture, preserving not just its image, but the entire moment, the feeling of contentment, the joy of companionship, and the knowledge that such days, though fleeting, are to be treasured.

Roses have always held a special place in my life, not just because of their beauty but because they were my mother’s and father's favorite flower. Our family garden was filled with them—blooms of Sterling Silver, Peace, Circus, and American Beauty. Each name sounded like a poem, and each rose carried its own presence, its own story. My parents tended to them with care, nurturing them, speaking softly as they trimmed away dead leaves and watered their roots. They knew each variety intimately, could describe their scent, their growth patterns, their unique characteristics. In our garden, roses weren’t just flowers; they were companions, constants through seasons of change.

Many poets and writers have drawn attention to the paradox of the rose—a delicate flower born from a bush of thorns. They use it to symbolize the balance of beauty and pain, joy and suffering. And while it is true that the thorns exist, I have never dwelled on them. I prefer to see the rose for what it is: a thing of wonder, something to be admired and appreciated. Life, too, is full of contrasts, but why focus on the difficulties when there is so much beauty to embrace?

That single white rose at Jessie's Grove reminded me of this. It reminded me of my mother’s garden, of sunlit afternoons and deep conversations, of the sweetness of wine and the laughter of friends. It reminded me that beauty—whether in nature, in memory, or in fleeting moments—deserves our full attention. And so, whenever I see a rose, I do not think of its thorns. I think of its petals, its scent, the way it catches the light. I think of love, of time, of the way life’s most precious moments bloom, even if only for a little while.

~Wylddane

Rick's garden is more than a place; it is a sanctuary, an oasis nestled in the heart of California’s Central Valley. It is a refuge where peace and delight intertwine, where time slows, and where the soul finds respite.

Mornings in Rick’s garden begin with a cup of coffee, steam curling into the cool air as the first golden rays of sunlight filter through the leaves, dappling the ground in soft, shifting patterns. The scent of damp earth and blooming roses mingles with the rich aroma of the coffee, awakening the senses. Finches greet the dawn with their songs, their delicate notes carried on the gentle breeze, blending harmoniously with the rustling of leaves and the occasional distant hum of a bee drifting lazily from flower to flower.

Afternoons unfold leisurely. A glass of crisp wine cools my fingertips as I sit beneath the shade of an arbor draped in flowering vines. The air is thick with the perfume of roses—velvety petals bursting in hues of crimson, pink, and apricot. The sweetness of sun-warmed fruit lingers on the tongue, a perfect complement to the laughter of dear friends gathered nearby. Conversations meander like a slow-moving stream, filled with reflections, dreams, and gentle teasing, punctuated by the clinking of glasses raised in celebration of the simple joys of life.

Evenings in Rick’s garden carry a different kind of magic. The setting sun casts long shadows, its light turning everything to gold. The air cools, yet the warmth of shared stories and lingering embraces remains. The scent of night-blooming flowers drifts through the air, mingling with the fading traces of the day’s laughter.

It is in these moments, these memories, that I gather hope. In a world filled with uncertainty and chaos, I choose to focus on this—a rose captured in a photograph, a reminder of love, of chosen family, of the profound beauty found in the simplest of things. When I gaze at that image, I am centered. My attention shifts from the horrors of the world to its miracles. And metaphysically, I understand: what we focus on expands. So I choose to focus on these memories, on the love that grows, on the gentle laughter that sustains. I choose to nurture hope, just as Rick’s garden nurtures the roses, the friendships, and the spirit of all who step within its embrace.
​
~Wylddane

When my parents retired, they built a house by a quiet lake in the northwoods of Wisconsin. It was a place of peace, of long reflections, and of life lived simply but richly. The house overlooked the water, where gentle ripples mirrored the sky, and loons called in the twilight. But when I think of that home, it is not the lake I see first—it is my father’s gardens.

To the north of the house, his hands shaped the land into a bounty of food: rows of corn stretching toward the sky, vines of beans and peas curling up their stakes, potatoes hidden beneath dark, rich soil. Strawberries and raspberries ripened under the summer sun, while tomatoes—golden and red—hung like ornaments from their vines. The work here was steady, predictable, rewarding. My father understood this rhythm well.

To the south, however, was where the magic happened. There, the earth was not tilled for sustenance, but for beauty. My father’s flower gardens were a place of color and quiet wonder, winding pathways leading through dahlias, gladiolas, begonias, roses, lilacs. Impatiens and coleus spilled over the edges, painting the landscape in hues both vibrant and soft. Birds darted among the blooms, their songs blending with the whispering breeze.

At the entrance to these gardens, he built a gateway—wooden lattice, painted green and white, with two benches nestled beneath. This was the threshold to his sanctuary. From those benches, one could sit and simply be. My parents often did just that, side by side in the late afternoon, not speaking much, just listening—to the birds, the rustling leaves, the soft lapping of the lake. It was the kind of silence that spoke of understanding, of lives intertwined over time.

My father was a good man. He was also stubborn, and I, his child, was no different. The acorn does not fall far from the tree, does it? In my teenage years, we clashed often, both unwilling to yield. Yet, with the clarity that time grants, I see now what I could not always see then—his strength, his patience, his quiet kindness.
​
I miss him. There is so much I would tell him now if I could. But in my mind, I return to that bench, to that entrance to the garden. I imagine us all there—him, my mother, myself—basking in the simple blessing of being together. And when I close my eyes, I can walk once more through my father’s garden, where love still lingers in every petal and leaf.

~Wylddane

​Last night, it snowed. It snowed a lot, and even now, the flakes still drift lazily from the sky, layering the world in a deepening hush. As I sip my morning coffee, I gaze out the window at a landscape untouched—no foot traffic, no cars, no hurried footprints marring the pristine white. Even the critters seem to have taken shelter, waiting out the storm in cozy burrows and hidden nests.

The world has paused, and in this quiet, my thoughts drift to snow days of years past. I am at that place in life where I have more years behind me than ahead, yet my memories remain vivid, as clear as the falling snow outside my window.

I remember my mother and father bundling me up on icy mornings, tugging mittens onto my hands, wrapping a scarf snugly around my face. The school bus would inch its way up the hill, and I’d dash out the door, running through knee-deep snow because the driver had little patience for the latecomer. I can still feel the cold air biting my cheeks, the exhilarating rush of making it just in time, the warmth of the bus and the friendly chatter inside. Those were days of love and security, wrapped in the simple rituals of childhood.

Then came the snowstorms of young adulthood—those blizzards so fierce that the city itself seemed to surrender. I remember walking down the middle of streets usually packed with cars, the world transformed into a winter wonderland where the usual rules of time and movement were momentarily suspended. Friends would gather in small, warm apartments, the glow of lamplight reflecting off snow-laden windows. We’d huddle together, watching movies on the first VCRs, marveling at the technology while outside, the world remained white and still.

And now—this morning. No plans, no obligations, just the peaceful presence of now. The aroma of coffee fills my senses, rich and comforting. My heart swells with gratitude—for the people I have loved, who have shared their lives with me, the quiet moments like this that allow reflection and appreciation to rise naturally.
​
Metaphysically, I know that what we focus on expands. And so, I choose to focus on love, on warmth, on the profound sense of peace that this moment brings. May it ripple outward, beyond my own heart, expanding into your life as well. May we all embrace the beauty of now, wrapped in the quiet magic of snow, memory, and gratitude.

~Wylddane

(Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)


© 2025 Wylddane Productions, LLC

"Spring arrives at Spangler's Landing like a whispered promise carried on the breeze, where the St. Croix River awakens in shimmering ripples, and the forest hums with the songs of returning birds. The earth stirs, the ice loosens its grip, and life blooms anew beneath the soft golden light of a lengthening day." 

~Wylddane