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When the Jenny Wren Sings...

5/30/2025

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"When the Jenny Wren Sings" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“We are each of us a note in the great song of the universe. Alone we are sound. Together we are music.”
— Unknown

When I was young—growing up in a house nestled among trees and seasons—my parents were bird watchers. They had their well-worn bird books within arm’s reach and binoculars always nearby, ready for the next visitor to the garden or woods. Their excitement, especially in spring, was contagious. I can still see the joy light up their faces when the tree swallows returned, those shimmering creatures with white breasts and iridescent green backs that dipped and danced through the air like living jewels.

They built wren houses—small, humble dwellings nailed to fence posts or tucked beneath the eaves—always hoping to attract those bold little birds. I remember them hearing a bird’s call and rushing to their books for identification. They would marvel at each visitor, as though greeting an old friend.

As a teenager, with a teenager’s oversized certainty about how the world works, I found it all rather quaint—perhaps even a bit silly. But now, with years behind me and a softer view of life, I understand. Their love of birds wasn’t just a hobby. It was reverence. It was wonder. And much more of it settled into my soul than I once realized.

To this day, when a bird sings, its name often springs to my lips without a second thought. The clear whistle of the cardinal. The flute-like warble of the oriole. The robin’s cheery notes. The echoing hammer of a woodpecker. But there was one song that made my parents’ hearts melt, and now makes mine do the same—the bubbling trill of what they affectionately called the “Jenny Wren.”

They once told me the bird was named after Jenny Lind, the beloved 19th-century opera singer known as the “Swedish Nightingale.” I’ve since learned that the term “Jenny Wren” technically refers to the Eurasian wren, not the North American house wren we watched flitting through the lilacs and hedges. But facts can’t always undo the tenderness of memory.

To me, the Jenny Wren will always be that sprightly, bright-eyed little bird—tail tipped upward, voice bursting forth with a song that seems far too big for its tiny body. A song that still carries the voices of my parents. A song that brings them back to me in a wave of sunlight and sound.

This morning, as I opened my French doors to the rising sun, the world greeted me in song. The percussive rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker set the rhythm, while the wren's clear melody danced through the air, joined by the golden tones of an oriole, the vibrant call of a cardinal, and the sweet murmur of robins. Each voice distinct. Each voice essential. And yet, together, they created a unified chorus—a mighty choir welcoming the day.

And as I stood listening, it occurred to me how much we humans are like these birds. Each of us has our own voice, our own story, our own song. But rather than sing together, we divide. By religion. By country. By culture. By who we love or how we live. We are taught to see “the other,” rather than seeing ourselves in each other. And that, I believe, is a travesty beyond comprehension.

Imagine a world where we sang together. Where we didn’t reduce each other to labels or borders or dogmas. Where your joy was my joy. Your freedom, my freedom. Your suffering, my sorrow. A world where we saw not strangers, but siblings. Not threats, but fellow travelers. Where we let our songs rise—different, yes, but beautifully harmonious.

Some might say such a world is naïve. That it cannot happen.

But I say—why not?

The Jenny Wren sings not for power or pride, but because it must. Because the morning is here and the song is within it. What if we too sang because the world is beautiful, and life is precious, and love is still the most powerful force we’ve ever known?

Yes—what a wonderful world it would be.

~Wylddane



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Rhododendron Morning...

5/29/2025

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"Rhododendron Morning" (Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The rhododendron has begun to bloom.

Each spring, it arrives quietly and then suddenly—its blossoms opening like delicate fans, spilling forth in shades of cream and gold that remind me of orchids kissed by the sun. This morning, as I looked out upon the newly opened petals of the single rhododendron in my yard, I felt a quiet awe. There’s something both ancient and utterly fresh about these blooms—a whisper of history carried on a spring breeze.

Rhododendrons have been part of the earth’s tapestry for at least 50 million years. Once they stretched wide across North America and Eurasia, thriving before climates shifted and mountains rose. They’ve inspired folklore across continents—seen by some as warnings, by others as pure beauty. Their evergreen leaves, graceful stems, and striking flowers have long been cherished. Even now, botanists continue to unravel their secrets, realigning species and discovering new depths through genetic study. And yet, here in my own garden, there is just one—and it is enough to fill my morning with wonder.

It is remarkable, really, how a single blossom can carry the legacy of millions of years, and how something so quietly alive can speak so loudly to the soul.

There are lessons wrapped in the petals. The rhododendron’s presence reminds me of the richness of life and the enduring presence of the Divine. I live in a world that brims with goodness and beauty, not only in the natural world that bursts forth each spring, but in the kindness of strangers, the generosity of friends, the unexpected smiles and quiet acts of grace that fill an ordinary day. This awareness sharpens my perception; the more I notice the beauty around me, the more it seems to come alive.

And so, as this day begins, I pause to give thanks.

For this bloom.
For this moment.
For this ancient miracle flowering anew in the morning light.
​
“There is a force in the universe, which, if we permit it, will flow through us and produce miraculous results.”
— Mahatma Gandhi

~Wylddane
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At the End of the Day...

5/28/2025

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"At the End of the Day" (Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The sun was setting behind the pines, casting long shadows across the woods, their silhouettes etched against a sky of fading gold and soft rose. Through the open window, the last light of day bathed my small reading table in a gentle glow. A lamp, warm and golden, poured its own light across the open pages of Vuong’s The Emperor of Gladness. My cat, curled contentedly beside me, purred in rhythm with the slow movement of a Saint-Saëns piano concerto playing softly in the background.

And in that moment, I realized something quietly profound: it was perfect.

Not perfect in the way of grand achievements or headline-worthy events. Rather, it was the kind of perfect that lives in the stillness of a single, sacred evening—the kind of perfect made up of small treasures: a good book, a loyal pet, beautiful music, and the unspoken companionship of nature slipping into night.

Dr. Wayne Dyer’s words echoed in my heart:

“Take a little more time to enjoy your life here on this planet: Be more contemplative by noticing the stars, the clouds, the rivers, the animals, the rainstorms and all of the natural world.”

And so I did. I let my eyes linger on the twilight sky and listened with fresh ears to the concerto, each note becoming a thread in the tapestry of evening peace. I watched the lamp’s light dance over the page, its golden hue blending with the colors of sunset, and I noticed how the simple act of noticing made the moment richer.

“Throughout my day, I look with new eyes and see the myriad expressions of life unfolding,” another voice inside me whispered. “I discover the Divine anew in the glories large and small of the wondrous world around me. The more I search, the more I discover so many delightful things that make my heart happy.”

And indeed, my heart was happy.

At the end of the day, when I closed my book and turned out the light, when I nestled under the covers and let the last strains of music dissolve into silence, I carried with me the deep knowledge that I was blessed. Gratitude rose from somewhere deep within and filled my soul like breath—warm, healing, and whole.

In a world that often moves too fast, this quiet moment was a gentle reminder: slow down, notice, listen. Life, in all its tender richness, is already offering itself to us.
​
All we have to do is say yes.

~Wylddane

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Silent Threads, Sacred Memory...

5/26/2025

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"Silent Threads, Sacred Memory" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Framed on my wall is a delicate lace-edged handkerchief—a fragile relic from another time, gently embroidered with two flags, one American and one French, and the words “Souvenir de France.” It’s old, creased from its long journey through time, but preserved now behind glass. A small object, and yet it holds generations of story, memory, and love.

It was purchased in Paris during the First World War by my uncle, a handsome man from my grandfather’s first marriage—a man I barely remember but somehow feel I’ve always known. He bought it for my aunt, my mother’s youngest sister, who treasured it for decades before mailing it to me, an act of quiet devotion across years and miles. When I look at it, I see more than just fabric and stitching—I see the face of a good man who served in a war that scorched the soul of a generation, and the kindness of a woman who held on to a symbol of that time with reverence.

This simple artifact becomes a portal. I think of my father, who served as an ambulance driver in the same war, navigating the mud-slicked roads and chaos of a conflict that introduced the world to mechanized horror. I think of cousins—some pilots, some part of the Danish underground resistance. I think of one who endured the brutal siege of the Battle of the Bulge. They were brave, and they were young. Their stories, if spoken at all, were sparse. History, I have learned, is often carried not in loud declarations but in quiet silences.

The other day, a dear friend told me a story from her own family—personal history folded into the sweep of global tragedy. Her mother was just nine years old, wearing a red, white, and blue dress and sitting in church in Hawaii when the bombs fell on Pearl Harbor. Amid panic and confusion, she ran through the streets, people pushing her down, fear closing in like smoke. Her brother, a teenager, had fallen asleep on the beach after a night of partying. He awoke hungover, disoriented, as the sky itself seemed to explode. The story, as her mother told it, was part tragedy, part comedy—like life so often is—but it spoke of innocence interrupted and youth forever changed.

This is the tapestry of Memorial Day. It is not just barbecues and parades, though those things have their place. It is memory. It is humility. It is the act of pausing—to remember not just the fallen soldiers, but the lives they touched, the families they left behind, the world they tried to protect.

A military cemetery is perhaps the most eloquent reminder of all. Walk among the rows of white stones and you will find yourself surrounded by silence—yet it is a silence that speaks. Each name, each date, each cross or star, whispers a story we may never fully know. Many were just 18 or 19, barely more than children.

Their dreams, their laughter, their potential—all surrendered to something larger.
​
And so, on this Memorial Day, I gaze at the handkerchief again. I remember my uncle and aunt. I remember my father. I remember my friend’s mother in her red, white, and blue dress. I remember all those whose lives became the quiet foundation of our freedoms. And I pray—earnestly, fervently—that their sacrifices were not in vain. That in these troubling times, when the specter of fascism once again flickers at the edge of our collective vision, we remember what they fought for. That we become the country we might be—a place where we all live in peace, in dignity, and in abundance.

“May the silence of the fallen speak louder than the noise of hate, and may we be worthy of the peace they died to give us.”  ~Anon

​~Wylddane





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Coffee Day Thoughts...

5/26/2025

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"Coffee Day Thoughts" (Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The rain taps gently against the windowpane, each droplet a tiny messenger from the sky. Outside, the river moves in a hushed rhythm, winding its way through the tall evergreens under a soft, gray sky. I cradle a warm mug of coffee in my hands, its rising steam mingling with my thoughts. There is something sacred about mornings like this—something that invites a deeper kind of seeing.

I sit quietly and listen—not just to the rain or the occasional whisper of wind, but to the truth that stirs within me. I am not broken. I am not lesser. I am not a mistake. I am a child of the Divine, woven from the same mystery and majesty as the river, the trees, the storm, and the calm that follows.

There is nothing I need to prove to be worthy of love, peace, or joy.

Too long I lived under the weight of expectations—some spoken, others silently implied. Expectations of how to live, whom to love, what to believe, what to hide. But here, in the stillness, I find clarity. I realize the only approval I truly need is already mine. It has been mine since the beginning—from the Divine source that brought me into being and continues to dwell within me.

I am free.

Freed from others’ expectations, I move forward with confidence. No longer do I carry the burden of self-doubt or the anxiety of needing to be fully prepared before taking a step. I trust the wisdom within me—the divine whisper that has always guided me, even when I doubted it.

This freedom is not loud. It doesn’t need applause. It is quiet and grounded, like the river outside my window. And just like the river, it moves with purpose, carving out new paths through the terrain of my life. With this newfound sense of acceptance and grace, I feel energy rise in me—not frantic or hurried, but steady and strong.

I know now that I am meant to shine in my own way—not to compete, not to conform, but to contribute. To speak truth, to act with love, and to do what is mine to do. Whether that means comforting a friend, sharing a vision, creating something beautiful, or simply showing up fully present in this moment—I trust that it is enough. More than enough.

The world doesn’t need perfection. It needs people who are free. People who are real. People who have embraced their wholeness, their wounds, and their light.

As the rain continues to fall, I smile softly and take a sip of coffee. I feel whole. I feel ready. I feel free.

~Wylddane



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It's the Start of a New Day...

5/25/2025

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"A New Day at Coon Lake" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The sky glows with the first soft gold of morning, and across the still lake, a gentle mist rises like the breath of the earth—peaceful, steady, alive. I look at the painting I created, and it captures it all: that hush before the world fully wakes, when the light is new, the colors are tender, and time itself seems to pause.

It is the middle of Memorial Day weekend here in the United States. Officially, it is a time for remembrance—a time to pause and reflect on the cost of freedom and the quiet, enduring legacy of those who served. The impact of war is never just on battlefields; it ripples across generations, carried in hearts, in folded flags, in stories whispered and silences kept.

But this weekend is also the unofficial start of summer. In the Northwoods, the change is palpable. The air hums with new energy. Summer folks arrive with smiles, boats grace the lakes again, children chase each other down wooded paths, and the scent of first campfires floats into the evening air. The days stretch out with the promise of warmth and barefoot wandering. It is a time of suntans and, yes, the occasional sunburn.

Life expands.

Yet beneath all the motion and merriment, this bright morning offers something more. It offers stillness. A place to breathe, remember, and simply be.

I sit with my coffee and let my heart move through memories—some joyful, others laced with longing. I think of cousins who served in World War II, young and brave, facing down a darkness that threatened the very soul of humanity. They fought so that fascism would not take root on our soil. I honor them in the silence of this moment.

I also think of all those who are no longer here—family who once filled my days with laughter, conversation, comfort. Of my immediate family, I am the only one left. I do not dwell in sorrow, but I carry the soft ache of remembrance, stitched into the fabric of who I am. They were, and always will be, a part of my story.

And perhaps that is why mornings like this matter so much. The light has a way of blessing everything it touches. In it, I feel both the presence of those I’ve loved and the deep stillness of the Divine.

There’s a quote I came across that echoes in my soul this morning:

“The Divine does not dwell only in the heavens, but in the tender light of a new day and the quiet presence of remembrance.”  ~Anon
​
Yes. In the quiet, in the memory, in the morning light—we are never truly alone. The day begins anew, and with it, so do we.

~Wylddane




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Sunrise, Classical Music, and Coffee...

5/23/2025

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"Sunrise, Classical Music, and Coffee" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
There is a sacred hush that exists just before the world fully awakens—when the sunlight is only beginning to weave golden threads through the trees, and the forest breathes in dew-soaked stillness. It is in these early morning moments, with classical music gently playing and a warm mug of coffee cradled in my hands, that I find myself most alive. Not in the busy hours to come, but here—in this cocoon of peace and quiet reverence. The birds begin their morning chorus outside, and I listen not just with ears, but with the entirety of my soul.

Once, long ago, it was the wee hours of the night that called to me. I lived then in San Francisco, a city humming even in the silence, wrapped in fog and possibility. In those sleepless nights, it was the deep, gravelly voice of Scott Beach on KKHI that guided me. His program—“Music 'til Dawn”—was my faithful companion. The richness of his voice, the way he introduced each piece of music as though it were a treasured friend—it offered comfort, a sense of belonging, and an atmosphere of elegant stillness. It felt as though the world was paused, and all that existed was the music, the night, and me.

But life evolves, as it does. Today, I greet the sunrise rather than the midnight hour. I welcome not city fog, but forest mist. And instead of city lights, it's the sun filtering through tall woods that bathes me in grace. My soundtrack now is still classical—Mozart, Debussy, Chopin—but layered with birdsong and rustling leaves. Still soulful. Still stirring. Still divine.

This is no longer a time of escape, as those nights once were. This is a time of arrival. Of being one with the Universe. No expectations, no obligations, just a deep presence. The simple ritual of morning—coffee, sunlight, music, breath—has become my daily meditation. The world will come soon enough with its clamor and chatter, but for now, I dwell in stillness. In beauty. In gratitude.
​
Some prefer the hush of night. I once did too. But now, I have discovered the sacred glow of the morning, and in it, I have found not only solace but strength. The forest welcomes me. The music moves me. The coffee warms me. And the sunrise reminds me: life is a gift. And this moment, especially, is mine.

"In the stillness of the morning, I hear the soul of the world whispering back to me."
– Anonymous

~Wylddane

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It's a Beautiful Day...

5/22/2025

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"Somewhere in NW Wisconsin" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
This morning, after several days wrapped in clouds and rain, the dawn arrived bright and clear. The light spilled across the landscape like a blessing, and without thinking, I murmured under my breath, “It’s a beautiful day.” I stood there a moment longer, gazing out the window at the brilliant sky reflected in the calm water beyond the pines. Then I opened my French door, and as if on cue, a chorus of birdsong rose to greet me—a morning symphony composed by nature herself. It was as though the world agreed with me: yes, it truly is a beautiful day.

But what makes a day beautiful?

Good health—most definitely. Waking with strength in my body and peace in my heart is no small thing. A beautiful sunrise—yes, that too. The kind that lights up the trees with gold and scatters shadows like dreams melting into morning. A hot, delicious mug of coffee cupped in my hands—absolutely. Its warmth, its aroma, its ritual, all grounding me in the moment.

My cat, ever the silent companion, padded up beside me and settled by the open door. Together we looked out, watching the breeze stir the leaves and the light play on the water’s surface. Her stillness mirrored my own sense of awe.

There’s the comfort of a cozy, safe home, a place that shelters not just my body but my spirit. Later today, I’ll meet friends I’ve known since the fourth grade—decades of memories wrapped in shared laughter and time-tested friendship. That, too, makes this day beautiful.

It’s the little things—though perhaps they are not so little after all. The everyday blessings that quietly carry us: health, home, friendship, beauty, and the echo of birdsong in the trees. Together, they create a day not just to live, but to treasure.
​
And for all this—this moment, this morning, this life—my heart and soul are filled with gratitude.

~Wylddane




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Begonia Musings...

5/20/2025

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"Begonia Musings" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
This morning, as the first light filtered through my kitchen window, I stood still—mug of coffee in hand—gazing at my begonia in full, unapologetic bloom. Its vibrant petals, lush and alive, seemed to radiate something deeper than beauty. There, in the quiet hush of morning, with the begonia as my gentle companion, memories—some tender, some heavy—began to drift through my mind like petals caught on a breeze.

I thought about my upbringing in a fundamentalist, evangelical world. My best friend back then was a preacher’s kid, and I followed a similar path—attending an evangelical college, eventually enrolling in seminary. For a time, I earnestly sought truth within the structure of religion, believing I was walking the path of faith. But somewhere between scripture studies and dogma, between sermons and silence, a quiet fracture began to form.

It wasn’t that I stopped believing in love, in compassion, in the sacred. It was that I saw a painful dissonance between the teachings of Jesus and the teachings of the institutional church. The Jesus I admired fed the hungry, healed the hurting, walked with the outcasts, and taught love without condition. But the religion I was immersed in preached exclusion cloaked in righteousness, control masked as doctrine. I didn’t lose my faith. I lost my religion.

And somehow, in that breaking away, a small, gentle flame remained—a spiritual ember I didn’t quite know how to name at the time. Years later, I came across Your Erroneous Zones by Dr. Wayne Dyer. Within its pages, a simple idea cracked open my understanding: while I cannot control what happens to me, I can always control how I respond. That truth rippled out into every corner of my life, awakening a deeper awareness.

Then came Rev. Maureene Bass of Unity, a woman who spoke of spirituality as an ever-expanding path. She opened doors that had been bolted shut. All paths to God—or to the Divine, or to Truth—are valid. What matters is love. What matters is kindness. What matters is living from the inside out, guided by a deeper wisdom, a Divine Intelligence that pulses through every cell of this vast universe.

Yes, karma is real—not as punishment, but as balance. For every action, a ripple. For every kindness, an echo. And yes, I believe in the teachings of Jesus—deeply. But I do not follow the teachings of organized religion. My spirituality is lived, not memorized. It is whispered in the wind through trees, felt in morning sunlight, seen in blooming flowers and shared over coffee.

So here I sit, grounded in this beautiful now, with the begonia reminding me that life unfolds when we let it. I am a spiritual being in a human body, still on my journey of discovery, walking forward with a curious heart. And I hope—no, I believe—that peace, faith, love, and kindness can still become the bedrock of our world.
​
May the flowers bloom.
May the coffee taste good.
And may we each find our own way to the sacred.

~Wylddane
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Saying Yes to Life...

5/17/2025

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"Clam Falls Flowage" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
​The scene before me—a watercolor of serenity—feels like a love letter from nature. A gentle lake, cradled by trees touched with spring's golden-green glow, reflects the world in softened hues. Blush-pink blossoms punctuate the shoreline, while a dock with resting boats waits patiently for summer's laughter. Everything here seems alive with presence, whispering a quiet but powerful invitation: Be here. Be now.

It is in moments like this that I remember how important it is to give my full attention to life. Whether I am sipping coffee at dawn, tending a garden, speaking with a friend, or simply watching sunlight flicker across the water, presence matters. When I pause and let my senses be filled—by birdsong, the scent of pine, the shimmer of wind-touched ripples—I feel the pulse of life itself.

Saying “yes” to life is not just about grand adventures or milestone events. It is about how I meet each ordinary moment. It is about choosing to live fully, embodying the qualities that give life its richness: love, peace, joy, kindness, and faith. These are not abstract ideals, but energies I can bring into every interaction, every task, every quiet hour. When I respond with love, when I listen with peace, when I act with kindness—I say yes.

To live this way is to trust life itself. Even when I do not know what comes next, I trust that something good is unfolding. Even when the road is uncertain, I still walk it with an eager spirit and an open heart. Life is not something to be endured—it is something to be participated in, with both arms open.

This image of the lake reminds me: calm and clarity are always available, if I slow down and pay attention. And just like the mirrored surface of the water, what I reflect into the world—my energy, my presence, my kindness—matters. It touches others. It creates ripples.
​
So today, I say yes to life. Yes to this moment. Yes to being fully alive.

“Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.”
— Unknown

~Wylddane


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    Family, friends and home are the treasures that bring me the most pleasure.  Through my blog, I wish to share part of my life and heart with readers.

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