Healing in the Garden of Being

In the foreground, a single flower stretches boldly into view—vivid, open, alive. Its crimson petals reach outward like arms embracing the world, its delicate stamen an exclamation point in nature’s quiet sentence. Behind it, life hums gently: trees whisper in sun-dappled air, hedges cradle shadows, and a community of homes stand in quiet watchfulness. This is not just a painting—it is a vision of vitality. A snapshot of healing. A sacred reminder that even amid the chaos of the world, beauty continues to bloom.

“As I turn my mind toward wholeness and well-being, I heal.” These words echo like a soft mantra in the soul. In this garden scene, we see the embodiment of such a shift. Healing doesn’t always arrive with thunder or drama. Sometimes, it comes as a shift in awareness—as turning one's mind toward light instead of darkness, possibility instead of fear. Like this blossom that leans into the light, our hearts open when we choose to move toward wholeness, no matter the shadows that surround us.

“Streams of healing vitality are flowing in my body, mind and spirit.” We are not stagnant beings. Just as sap rises in spring and rivers find their way to the sea, healing is a current—subtle, insistent, alive. It moves through us when we pause to breathe deeply, when we allow silence to settle over our worries, when we gaze at something beautiful and let ourselves feel. Healing doesn’t always mean being cured—it means becoming whole. Returning to ourselves. Reconnecting with the truth of who we are beyond our conditions.

This painting, with its vivid hues and organic lines, reminds us of the inner power that lies in stillness and presence. That flower, bold and reaching, knows nothing of fear. It simply follows its nature—to bloom, to express, to be. And we, too, can do the same. Even in uncertain times. Even when the world feels broken.

Especially then.

“The power within me is greater than any condition.” In the face of illness, loss, anxiety, or global unrest, this truth is a lifeline. Power does not always roar. Often, it is quiet strength—resilience that rises with the sun, grace that holds us upright when we want to fall, faith that blooms within us when there is no map, only the next step.

To live in times of uncertainty is to be given a sacred invitation: to choose where to place our attention. Will we gaze endlessly at the fractures? Or will we turn our minds toward wholeness—toward the vivid flower that still blooms, the breeze that still stirs the trees, the kindness that still lives in hearts around the world?

The painting does not deny the world beyond its frame. But it focuses on beauty. On presence. On life.
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So today, let us be like the blossom in the garden. Let us open, despite it all. Let us trust the healing that is already moving within us. Let us remember that we, too, are part of the living canvas—and our very presence is part of the great restoration.

~Wylddane

"The River of Kindness"

The river stretches out before me, a ribbon of deep, endless blue under a sky brushed with the lightest hand of spring. Bare branches reach across the scene, delicate and strong, sketching their truth against the bright expanse. The water moves steadily, rippling and shimmering with life unseen. It is a silent hymn to endurance, to grace, to the unseen journeys that shape all living things.

As I stand by the water’s edge, I am reminded that just as the river flows without needing recognition, so too do the acts of love and kindness we offer in this world. I may never know the true ripple effects of my caring acts—and I don't need to. It is enough to know that, as I give, I also receive; that blessings flow through me even as I share them outward.

The river does not demand to see where its waters end. It simply trusts the pull of something greater, something vast and mysterious. And so it is with kindness: when we give without expectation, when we love without condition, we become part of a current far larger than ourselves. Our small offerings join a vast, unseen ocean of goodness and grace, touching shores we may never walk, reaching hearts we may never meet.

I no longer worry about how my kindness will be repaid. I do not give to be thanked, or loved, or remembered. I give because giving is its own reward. I serve because service ties me to the greater flow of life. I love because to love is to honor the sacredness in others, and in myself.

Standing by this river, I feel it — the quiet truth that caring is never lost. It travels on, borne by invisible currents, passed from soul to soul in ways beyond our imagining. Every kindness, every gentle word, every unseen act of love matters.
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We are all part of something far greater than we can ever see — a living, breathing tapestry of compassion and grace, woven from millions of unseen threads. And today, under this wide blue sky, beside these whispering waters, I am at peace. It is enough to simply be one small ripple in the river of kindness.

~Wylddane

Apple River Musings

There is a river not far from here, called the Apple River. Most know it by its English name, but few know the deeper roots from which it flows.

In the Ojibwe language, it is called Waabiziipiniikaan-ziibi — "River Abundant with Swan Potatoes."

When French explorers came, they translated it partially, keeping only pomme — "apple" — from pomme de terre, meaning "apple from the earth," their term for potato.

By the time the English name was settled, only the word "apple" remained. The river lost something in translation — yet it also gained a kind of quiet mystery.

Still, if you sit along its banks, and if you listen, you can feel the deeper meaning whispering through the waters.

The river remembers.

It carries with it the memory of the people who lived here long before us, who knew the land not as a possession, but as a living, breathing spirit to be honored.

The Ojibwe, who named the river so thoughtfully, built their lives around values that feel both ancient and urgently needed today:

• Respect for Nature: A deep, abiding connection to the Great Spirit and to all living things — seeing trees, rivers, animals, and even stones as part of a sacred family.
• Sharing and Generosity: Life was built not around accumulation, but around giving. A gift was not a transaction, but a sacred act of connection.
• Reciprocity: An unspoken understanding that what we give to the world — to others, to the earth — eventually returns to us in one form or another.
• Knowledge and Wisdom: Learning was not hoarded; it was shared, honored, passed down like a treasured gift, binding generations together.
• Interconnectedness: Every being, every element, every moment was part of a single, vibrant web of life, woven through with respect and care.

Imagine if we lived by these values today — truly lived by them.
How much better, kinder, and more sustainable our world might be.

The other day, a friend posted something that struck me deeply.
"I have something a billionaire will never have... I have enough."

Enough.

Such a small word — and yet it holds an entire world of peace within it.

Enough means being rooted. It means knowing the taste of contentment. It means understanding that wealth has little to do with accumulation, and everything to do with belonging.

As I sit by the Apple River, watching its waters slip past stones and roots, sunlight glinting on its surface, I feel it: that sense of enough.

The sound of the water over the rocks is a song older than any words I know.

The scent of pine needles, sun-warmed earth, and the crisp bite of the river air fills my lungs with something I can only call gratitude.

Here, there is no race to win. No fortune to build. No world to conquer.
There is only the river, the trees, the sky, the life moving all around me.
And the quiet reminder that to live fully, we do not need more.

We need only to remember.
To respect.
To share.
To learn.
To love.
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And to know, deep down in our bones, that we already have enough.

~Wylddane

​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