“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

“The words I Am are the key to your divinity. What you claim, you become.”  ~Reverend Maureene Bass (paraphrased)

This morning began not with birdsong or serenity, but with a flood of uninvited thoughts. The kind of thoughts that sneak in before the sun has even stretched its light across the horizon—doubts, worries, the gnawing static of the world. I lay there for a while, caught in that gray haze between sleep and wakefulness, adrift in negativity.

But then, somewhere from within the deeper stillness of my soul, a whisper rose—not a memory, but a reminder. Rev. Maureene Bass’s talks about the sacred power of “I Am.” And also, Dr. Wayne Dyer’s voice came echoing through the folds of time, affirming how the words we speak after “I Am” shape not just our day, but our very being.

Still foggy-headed, I shuffled to the mirror and looked myself in the eye. No, I didn’t scream—though the sight was certainly still half asleep. But I stood there, quietly, and said: “I Am.”

Just that.

Not “I am tired.”
Not “I am worried.”
Not “I am behind.”

Just I Am.

And something shifted. Not outside, not in the headlines or the inbox or the news ticker. But inside. In that moment, the chatter of the early morning mind softened, and I felt a return to self—a realignment with what is eternal and unshakable within.

Later, I found myself here, by the St. Croix River. Upriver. A perfect metaphor for the journey of a new day. The current of this ancient waterway flows steadily behind me, but my gaze moves forward. Into possibility. Into potential. Into peace.

And this quote found its way to me, as if the river itself delivered it on the wind:

“Grow in the light of your true self.
Release the need to be perfect.
Accept each moment as a gift.
Choose compassion over judgment.
Embrace the beauty of your soul.”
— Etheric Echoes

Grace.

Not a thunderclap. Not an epiphany with fireworks. Just grace—quiet, real, and gently unfolding like the breeze that moves across the riverbank.

It’s not perfection I’m seeking. It’s presence. And this day—this very morning—reminds me that even when negativity greets me at the threshold of dawn, I hold the key to step through a different door.

I Am.
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And that is enough.

~Wylddane

This morning—this very warm morning—I wandered through my garden, seeking its quiet company before the heat of the day settled in. The sun had only begun to rise, its rays just brushing the leaves and petals with a golden kiss, when I discovered that the clematis had begun to bloom.

There it was—vivid, vibrant, and alive with color. A single blossom, unfurling in rich purple glory, reached toward the light as if offering itself in benediction. I stopped. I stood. I absorbed. In that moment, the world narrowed and deepened. The birds chattered softly in the trees, and a squirrel darted by on some secret errand, yet everything felt hushed—like nature, too, had paused in reverence.

It was a sacred moment of calm.

As I stood there, I thought of Paramahansa Yogananda’s words: “Calmness is the living breath of God’s immortality in you.” And I felt it. Deep in my being. A breath of calmness that transcended the chaos of the world outside this garden sanctuary.

We are living through a time of deep unraveling—watching, almost helplessly, as a once-great nation seems to be torn apart by the twisted ambitions of a demented narcissistic madman and the cowardice of his enablers. Another war rages now, its flames stoked by pride, greed, cruelty and sheer stupidity...claiming lives while the world watches with weary eyes. It is easy to be overcome by rage or despair.

But here, in the garden, I found another way.

This small, delicate clematis flower, blooming despite the heat and the heaviness of the times, reminded me that beauty persists. Peace persists. Nature persists. And so must we.

In this fragile, fleeting moment, I wrapped my soul in calmness. I let it settle over me like the cool morning breeze, like the soft shade of a tree, like a prayer whispered not in words but in presence. I chose to begin this day with peace in my heart and faith in my soul. Not the blind faith that ignores the darkness—but the radiant kind that sees clearly and still chooses the light.

This, I believe, is our quiet rebellion. Our silent resistance. This calmness is not surrender—it is strength. It is divine. And it has the power to guide us through whatever storms may come.
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Because in the end, no tyranny, no war, no madness has power over the sacred stillness within. This too shall pass. But the bloom of the clematis, and the calm breath of God’s immortality in each of us—that remains.

“In the midst of movement and chaos, keep stillness inside of you.”  ~Deepak Chopra

~Wylddane

Here in the Northwoods, the St. Croix River often calls to me. Not with sound, but with a presence—an ancient whisper that speaks to something deep and enduring within. Its waters, shaped over millennia, carry the echoes of the past, hold the rhythm of the present, and shimmer with the mysteries of the future. I find myself drawn to its banks time and time again, not just for the serenity, but for the silent wisdom it offers.

Rivers, as powerful and dynamic natural forces, have long been revered by cultures across the world. They are ever-moving, never static. Their courses shift and bend, erode and build, always responding to the land around them. In this way, rivers become teachers. They remind us that life is never still—that change is not only inevitable, but natural. The current of a river doesn't fight its path; it flows with it, adapting around rock and root, deepening here, quickening there. In doing so, it shows us the value of flexibility and persistence.

The river supports countless forms of life. Trees lean in close to drink from it, fish dart through its shallows, birds sing above it, and humans—like me—stand beside it, absorbing its lessons. A river is not just water—it is connection. It is the thread that ties together ecosystems, stories, and generations. This too is a truth worth remembering: that we are all connected, and what happens upstream, whether in nature or in life, eventually affects the whole.

For me, rivers are a metaphor for the life journey itself. That which is upstream—hidden by a bend, still forming—is the future. We may think we know what’s coming, but we don’t. We see it, or think we do, but we cannot truly grasp it until it arrives. That which flows downstream is our history, our memories, the tapestry of who we have been. It carries all we have seen, felt, and done. And where we stand, here at the water’s edge, is the present. Watching the water, listening to its music, feeling the cool swirl at our feet—this is the now. The eddies and ripples mirror our thoughts, drifting, circling, occasionally still.

And perhaps the river teaches us something more nuanced than the oft-repeated “live in the moment.” A friend once offered an intriguing thought—that only someone with dementia truly lives solely in the moment.

It made me pause. There is merit in the observation. But I’ve come to believe that “being present in the moment” is a more expansive, conscious act. It's not about forgetting the past or future—it’s about anchoring oneself deeply in the now while still honoring both.

As children, many of us were told to finish our chores before we could run outside and play. It was an unspoken lesson that joy came after the work. So we did the dishes while dreaming of the backyard, we made our beds while plotting our afternoon adventures. And this mindset followed us into adulthood. We brush our teeth while thinking about breakfast. We do the laundry while planning our weekend. We work jobs with our minds always on what we’ll do when we’re finally off the clock.

But what if we could shift that? What if brushing our teeth became a moment of gratitude—for having them, for our health? What if doing the dishes became an act of appreciation—for the meal, the hands that shared it, the water that cleans? What if we learned to be in each moment—not racing toward the next, but rooted in the now?

But being present is more than just a discipline—it is a kind of music. To be present is to stop and truly hear the melody of a morning as it begins. It is to listen to birdsong before the world stirs, or to let the hush of gentle rain wrap around you like a familiar tune. It is to feel the warmth of sunlight as it touches your face or to follow the slow dance of shadows on the wall. Even in silence, there is music—in the rhythm of our breath, the pulse of our hearts, the quiet thoughts that drift across our minds like refrains of remembered songs. These moments, so easy to miss, are where the soul finds harmony. This is the music of the present—and it plays for us always, if only we choose to listen.

The river doesn’t hurry. It flows. And as I stand by it, I am reminded to do the same.
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There is a presence in this flow, a holiness even, that invites reverence. It invites me to pause—not to escape the world, but to fully step into it. The river, in its quiet persistence, asks me not to watch my life go by as if I were standing on the shore, but to wade in, feel the current, and know that this, this moment, is sacred.

"A river seems a magic thing. A magic, moving, living part of the very earth itself."  ~Laura Gilpin

~Wylddane

Years ago, while walking through a quiet park in Pacifica, California—a place where the sea breeze meets the scent of eucalyptus and the sky seems always in motion—I paused to admire a simple white flower. I didn’t know its name then, and I still don’t. But something about it spoke to me. Perhaps it was the way it stood so gently in its place, delicate yet certain. I took a picture.

Later, I edited that image, shaping it into something new—something dreamlike. The flower now bloomed within a teardrop of glass, suspended like a raindrop catching light. Without giving it a formal name, I began calling it Captured Memories. It felt right. It still does.

This morning, I came across a quote that felt like a whisper from the past:

“Taking an image, freezing a moment, reveals how rich reality truly is.”  ~Anonymous

And indeed, is it not fascinating how a single image—a photograph, a painting, a glimpse—can unlock the door to a time long past? Suddenly we are there again. The sounds return, the light shifts back into its remembered angles, and for a moment, we are standing in that moment once more. The world hasn’t changed—we have. And yet, through the image, something stirs. Something eternal.

Sometimes, even more magically, we look at an image of a place we’ve never been, or a time before our own, and yet something in our spirit recognizes it. It touches a chord. Is it memory, or is it something deeper?

Some might dismiss it as imagination or sentimentality. But I call it magic. I call it the fabric of our lives.

Each picture is a tapestry thread—woven of light and shadow, scent and sound, emotion and breath. These are the moments that make us. These are the glimpses of joy and quiet reflection, of laughter caught mid-air, of eyes that once gazed back at us with love.

When I gaze at Captured Memories, I do not just see a flower in a park. I feel the air of that morning. I remember the walk. I remember who I was. And for a moment, I feel the quiet joy of being held in that time again.

But then, the gaze shifts—to now. The present. And I ask myself: What am I capturing today? What moments am I creating that may one day bloom inside a bubble of memory or a glistening photograph? Will these moments be rich with laughter? With peace? With love?

That, I realize, is entirely up to me.

Because today—this very moment—is tomorrow’s memory in the making. And if I live it well, with presence and gratitude, then it too will one day be captured… not just in images, but in the soul.
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"Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us."  ~Oscar Wilde

~Wylddane

  "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul—and sings the tune without the words—and never stops at all."  ~Emily Dickinson

This morning began with a softness, the kind only found in the quiet breath before dawn. The air was thick with humidity, promising the sticky embrace of a typical June day. Yet in that gentle, liminal hour—when the sky is still undecided between night and morning—I wandered through my garden. Dew clung to my feet, a cool and silvery balm, as if the earth itself had whispered blessings into the blades of grass.

And then, I saw it.

An iris, in full, glorious bloom. Its petals unfurled like a whisper of wonder—deep reds, vibrant pinks, soft purples, and a touch of glowing gold. My first thought was simple and pure: “How beautiful you are.” The kind of beauty that startles you into presence. That insists you forget, for a moment, the heaviness of headlines or the noise of worry. This flower—this delicate masterpiece of nature—was a gift. A vivid reminder that life still blooms, even in uncertain times.

In that moment, I was lifted to a different plane, away from fear and toward something far more sacred—hope.

There is power in beauty. Not the beauty sold to us or manufactured, but the kind that appears without pretense. The kind found in a single flower blooming quietly before the world wakes. That iris became a symbol, not just of the season’s richness, but of the possibilities each day holds. It reminded me that I am not just a passive observer in this life—I am a co-creator, a divine being walking the earth with spiritual gifts that matter.

I may not always know where my skills, my heart, or my hopes will be needed most. But I trust the inner compass, that sacred knowing within, to lead me to where light is needed. My task is not to control the outcome, but to move forward in faith—to offer my presence, my words, my creations—as seeds of peace.

Hope is not a fragile thing. It is resilient. It blooms in gardens. It lives in kindness. It survives the storms. And it is always waiting to rise again, just as that iris rose this morning—unexpected and radiant.

So today, I walk forward with trust. I release the pressure to have all the answers. I do what I can, from where I am, and then I let go. I surrender to divine timing, knowing that I do not walk alone.

And in the stillness, I hear it—a whisper from the universe, soft as morning light:

“Bloom where you are. The world needs your hope.”

~Wylddane