There is something quietly symbolic about a wooded path, especially one softened by recent rain, overgrown with summer's green abundance. The photo I took the other day along the northern reaches of the St. Croix River captures such a moment — a narrow trail winding forward through ferns, grasses, and trees, inviting me to step in without revealing what lies beyond the bend. It is a familiar feeling, not only in the forest, but in life itself.

This morning, rain falls gently on the northwoods. Instead of walking through my garden, coffee in hand, I’m inside, listening to the soft symphony of rain through an open window. The birds continue their morning chorus as if to remind me that even in stillness, the world moves forward. It’s the perfect setting for reflection — and today, my mind drifts to decisions.

Someone very wise once told me that life is about decisions — and that even not making a decision is, in fact, a decision. Where I sit now, where any of us sit, is the cumulative result of every choice made: the deliberate, the impulsive, the reluctant, and even the ones we thought were made for us. Together, they form the landscape of our lives, just like the forest floor shaped by countless fallen leaves, weathered roots, and meandering streams.

There are decisions I look back on with pride and gratitude. Others — well, there are regrets. And that same wise soul said something else that stuck with me: If you have no regrets, you’re not truly awake. Not truly human. Regret doesn’t mean failure; it means feeling, growing, evolving. It means you cared. It means you tried.

Each path we take becomes part of us. Some lead to unexpected beauty, others to loss, and some to nothing more than a clearing where we pause, reflect, and begin again. The paths chosen — and even those we walked away from — carve our character. They’re the hidden contours beneath our skin, the echoes in our laughter, the pauses in our voice when we recall the past.

There are, of course, those small decisions that pass unnoticed in the moment: a conversation we almost didn’t have, a book we nearly didn’t read, a walk we almost skipped. And yet, how often do these seemingly insignificant steps become the most transformative?

So today, as the rain nourishes the woods beyond my window and memory stirs with the hush of falling drops, I think of the many paths I’ve walked — and those yet to come. I think of choice as a sacred act. A risk. A whisper of hope. A step forward.
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And I feel gratitude — even for the crooked, muddy, uncertain trails. For they led me here. To this morning. To this moment of peace, reflection, and the soft warmth of coffee in my hands.

“We are our choices.”
— Jean-Paul Sartre

~Wylddane

"Love is the bridge between you and everything."   ~Rumi

It is Sunday morning in the northwoods, and the world feels hushed and holy. Mug of coffee warming my hand, I stroll through my garden, where the quiet rhythms of life pulse beneath petals, paws, and song. I pause, drawn by the gentle glory of a white clematis. Its bloom—a star of soft brilliance—seems too pure for this world, almost sacred. There’s something in its shape and stillness that speaks to the soul, a whisper that says: You are seen. You are loved.

Not far from the clematis, the Asiatic lily has opened overnight—bold, tropical, unapologetically alive. The garden, in its juxtaposition of soft white and vivid fire, feels like a conversation between stillness and celebration, contemplation and passion. All around me, love has taken form in nature's quiet chorus: birdsong stitched into the morning mist, the delicate hush of rabbit feet on dewy grass, the watchful gaze of the neighbor’s tuxedo cat nestled beneath a hydrangea.

A strange haze, smoke from distant Canadian wildfires, has settled into the trees like an unwelcome but strangely beautiful guest. The air smells of distant burning pine—woodsmoke and memory mingling. And then the sun rises, burnishing everything it touches with an otherworldly bronze. It’s as though the Universe has painted this moment just for me, just for now.

And in this moment, I feel it.

Love.

My soul answers the call with its own gentle echo: Here I am.

I think of Haddaway’s pulsing question--“What is love?”—and I smile, recalling the dance beat, the remix by Moreno J that sometimes guides my feet through the garden in playful steps. (May the neighbors forgive my early morning pirouettes.) But beneath the pop beat lies a profound question—one that has echoed across time and cultures.

English gives us one word for love. The Greeks gave us many:

• Eros: the passionate, romantic love that sets hearts and worlds on fire.
• Philia: the deep love between friends, forged through loyalty and laughter.
• Storge: the quiet, familiar love that binds family together.
• Agape: the selfless, unconditional love that sees the divine in others.
• Ludus: the lighthearted, playful love that dances through gardens and flirts through glances.
• Pragma: the enduring, steady love that stands the test of time.

Love, in all its forms, pulses through the world—visible in the arms of a mother cradling her baby, in the clasp of hands between old friends, in the bowed head of a priest serving his God, in the concentrated gaze of a scientist peering through a microscope, and in the unseen order of the stars.

What is love? To understand it, one must experience it—not in theory but in breath and being.

Love is not popularity. It is not prestige. It is not performance. Love is a sharing. Love is a power. Love is a transformation. Sometimes it transforms the world around us—but always, it transforms us.

To love is to find joy in the joy of others. To love is to see—not just with eyes, but with the heart. To love is to understand someone’s silence, to lift their burdens, to speak their language even when no words are said. It is to walk gently through this world, leaving kindness in your wake like petals on a path.

This morning, my garden has become a chapel. The white clematis is my candle. The smoke-tinged sunrise is my stained glass. And love—playful, radiant, enduring—is the hymn.

And so I walk, sip, smile, and dance.
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What is love?
It is this moment.
It is everything.

“Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.”  ~Khalil Gibran

~Wylddane

I live in the northwoods now. It is July, and the mornings are lush with green growth and dew-slicked blossoms. My garden has become a quiet sanctuary, a place where each early morning begins with a ritual: a slow walk among the flowers, coffee mug in hand, listening to birdsong, exchanging nods with my faithful cottontail rabbit companion, and sometimes sharing the silence with the neighbor's curious visiting cat. It is not a ceremony in any formal sense—but in my heart, it is sacred. It is my meditation.

To me, meditation is a form of prayer—a communion with the quiet, with the natural world, with the oneness that binds all things. It's not about chanting or mantras or crossing your legs just so. It’s about presence. It’s about listening.

This morning, it is raining. No garden walk. No sunrise slanting through the oak trees. But in the absence of my usual rhythm, I found myself gazing at an image I had tucked away—a photo I took years ago in Pacifica, California. The roar of the Pacific lives in this image. I can almost feel the salt mist on my skin, the cool wind threading through my jacket.

The photo is from where Calera Creek empties into the Pacific Ocean at Rockaway Beach. It stirs a whole world of memory. Two walks were my favorite during those years: the first, from Sharp Park Pier to Mori Point and then up and over that wild headland, watching waves crash against cliffs as the fog shifted like a ghost; the second, through the Calera Creek wetlands to the very place this photo captures, where earth meets ocean in a drama of sound and light.

A few steps into either walk, and my thoughts would begin to dissolve. Worries lifted like morning fog. I became one with the moment, my companions the rhythmic crash of surf, the cry of gulls, the swirl of wind, sky, and wave. That, too, was meditation. That, too, was prayer.

“Meditation is a practice that involves techniques to train attention and awareness. It aims to achieve a mentally clear and emotionally calm state.”  ~Unknown

“Mindfulness meditation involves being present and aware of thoughts and feelings without judgment.”  ~Unknown

These definitions feel clinical, and yet they resonate. They name what I’ve long known in my bones. Whether I’m walking a beach in Pacifica or strolling a rain-kissed path in my northwoods garden, meditation opens a door to grace. It clears the static. It returns me to now.

Even on this rainy morning, with no walk possible, I look into that photograph and I’m transported. The roar of the waves returns. My mind stills. I am there—and here. The boundaries blur. My spirit, attuned once more to nature's voice, listens to the whisper of memory, the echo of timeless presence.
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Meditation, like memory, is a bridge. It brings us home.

“Silence is not the absence of something but the presence of everything.”
~Gordon Hempton

~Wylddane

My coffee tastes especially good this morning.

I make it the same way every day—same beans, same scoop, same mug—but today it’s different. Richer, deeper, more comforting. Why is that? Perhaps it's not the coffee that changed, but me. My mood. The moment. The way the world feels as it drifts slowly past my window, cloaked in fog and wrapped in the hush of a gray morning.

Outside, the fog is thick and humid, moving like a breath across the glass. The trees, barely visible through the blur, seem to be holding their own kind of meditation. And inside, I find myself thinking of cause and effect. For every action, there is a reaction—an immutable law of the universe that governs both the stars and the stirrings of the human heart. Every word we speak, every glance we cast, every choice we make sends ripples outward.

This thought leads me to another truth—one I revisit often, especially in uncertain times:

We cannot control what happens to us, but we can control how we respond.

This phrase is simple, but like the best ideas, its power lies in its simplicity. We do not control the storm, but we choose whether to find shelter or dance in the rain. We do not control the fog, but we decide whether to curse its dampness or marvel at its mystery.

The power of the mind is tremendous. I believe that what we focus on, expands. It’s another kind of action and reaction, isn't it? If we focus on fear, fear grows. If we focus on anger, anger multiplies. But if we begin—quietly, gently—to focus on kindness, on beauty, on love… those too begin to bloom in abundance.

In these dark and unnerving times, it's easy to be swept away by the tide of dread. But here’s a radical thought: for every “bad” thing, there are ten good things. Small things, maybe—but not insignificant. The smell of coffee. The warmth of a fire. The sound of rain against the window. A friend’s unexpected text. A dog’s sigh as it curls into sleep. These are the anchors. The evidence that not all is lost.

Let’s be clear—this is not about denial. I am not suggesting we turn away, play pretend, or live in the land of Pollyanna. We must stay informed. We must know the shape of the world if we are to help reshape it. But let that be information, not identity. Let it be the background music, not the main melody. Let our focus be on what we are building—within ourselves, and within this world.

So today, I sip this better-than-usual coffee. I watch the fog drift. I sit with thoughts of cause and effect, of fear and focus, of storms and stillness. I do not know what will come. But I know this much: I choose how I meet it.
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And this morning, I choose hope.

“Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief.
Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now.
You are not obligated to complete the work,
but neither are you free to abandon it.”  ~The Talmud

~Wylddane

It rained last night.

As I was settling into bed, I heard the distant boom of thunder echoing like a low drum across the hills, followed by the steady percussion of raindrops tapping on the roof. A lullaby composed by the sky. I drifted into sleep to its rhythm—deep, undisturbed, and wrapped in the kind of comfort my mother once called “good sleeping weather.” She was right.

Now it is morning.

Very early. The world is still stretching awake. A golden hush fills the garden as sunlight filters through the trees in radiant slants, bathing the grass and the damp earth in soft illumination. The leaves shimmer with quiet gratitude. There’s a sense that everything is exactly as it should be, at least for now. It is a moment of perfect harmony.

And I am thinking of that word--harmony.

When the world feels loud and overwhelming, when headlines scream and tempers flare and everything seems perched on the edge of unraveling, I return to this. To this simple scene. To this ancient music of nature that plays on whether or not we choose to listen. In the hush after a storm, in the rustle of leaves, in the pulse of morning light—harmony reveals itself.

It’s not just poetic. It’s elemental. Harmony is built into the architecture of the universe. I see it in the design of spiderwebs, in the patient cycles of the moon, in the symbiotic dance of pollinators and blossoms, in the way trees breathe in our breath and return it as life. It’s all connected. Nature is not in conflict with itself. It moves in rhythms, in balance, adjusting and readjusting with grace.

This gives me hope.

As my life shifts—sometimes gently, sometimes abruptly—and as the world staggers through uncertainty, I remind myself that harmony is not a fantasy. It is a possibility. Not a static peace, but a dynamic balance.

Just as the Earth tilts, spins, and travels through changing seasons, we too evolve. We learn, we heal, we reconnect.

I believe the desire for harmony is planted deep in the human heart. We are not separate from nature; we are part of it. And when we return to it—walk among the trees, listen to the rain, rise with the sun—we remember something ancient and true. We remember how to be.

This morning, standing in my garden, the light warming my face and the memory of last night’s rain still fragrant in the air, I feel it again. That gentle assurance. That quiet promise.

Harmony is always possible. Even when it feels far away.
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“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.”  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

~Wylddane

It is a beautiful summer morning in the garden. The air is still, as if listening. I stroll, coffee in hand, stopping here and there amid the riot of color—a kaleidoscope of coneflowers, lilies, clematis, and all manner of green, alive things. Birdsong floats like ribbons through the air, weaving itself into the tapestry of dawn.

A coneflower catches my eye, radiant and unbothered. The golden-pink petals lean slightly, basking in sunlight that, only hours from now, will slip behind a distant hill on the other side of the world. I pause, and in that pause I remember: the sun that rises to greet me is the very same that whispers goodnight to someone else.

In this simple garden, I am immersed in wonder. The rabbit that visits often is nibbling clover in the shade.

The black kitty with white paws stretches luxuriously beneath the hydrangea, glancing at me with those eyes that seem to know more than they let on. The three of us, in shared silence, make peace with the morning.

And I think of transcendental idealism—of Kant, who argued that space and time are not qualities of the world itself, but of the way we experience it. That all we know of reality are appearances filtered through the mind’s lens. The flower I see may not be a flower as it truly is—it is my perception, my arrangement of color and form and memory and feeling. If that is so, then this moment, this rabbit, this kitty, even this coffee—they are not real in any ultimate sense. And yet…

They are everything.

I drift from blossom to shadow, from sunlight to memory, and thoughts arrive without knocking. I hear echoes of Dr. Wayne Dyer’s voice: “Expand your reality to the point where you pursue what you love doing and excel at it.” Is this the path? Is this garden morning—this moment of wandering presence—part of that pursuit? I do not know.

But I am.
I am this breath.
I am this gaze upon petal and leaf.
I am this curious, grateful soul wandering barefoot among green miracles.
I am not separate from this garden—I am this garden.
I am not apart from the birdsong—I am the song.
I am not watching the light—I am the light.

And maybe, just maybe, the lines between the real and the perceived are not boundaries at all, but brushstrokes in a larger painting. Whether divergent or convergent, the thoughts themselves are not the point—the wonder is.
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It is, in every way, a grand and glorious day to be alive.

“You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.”  ~Rumi

~Wylddane

“Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year.”   ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

This is one of those mornings when the sheer brilliance of the world feels almost too beautiful to absorb. The sun rises not with indifference but with intention—casting golden rays like benedictions through the trees.

The garden stirs softly beneath its touch, each flower unfolding as if in prayer. A single rabbit pauses in the light, still and alert, as though aware of the sacredness of this moment. And I, too, pause.

There is a magical clarity to the air—a kind of sparkling presence that asks nothing and offers everything. As I stand just inside the open French doors, watching light and life spill forward like a gentle flood, I am reminded of the Buddha’s wisdom: “Every morning, we are born again. What we do today is what matters most.”

Today is not yesterday. Nor is it tomorrow. It is now. Fresh. Unspoiled. Wonderfully mine.

I breathe in the sweet scent of lilies and damp earth. I listen to the hush before birdsong and the quiet rustle of clematis vines climbing toward light. Nature does not question the dawn; it embraces it fully. So too, I allow this new day to seep into me—body, mind, and spirit.

Yes, the drums of evil may throb in distant corners of the world. The clamor of cruelty, ignorance, and fear may march on relentlessly. But this—this moment, this sacred golden hour—is stronger. What is right, what is good, what is empathic, loving, and true always has been. And always will be.

Heraclitus wrote, “The sun is new each day.” And so am I.

The beauty of this morning beckons not just my eyes but my soul. It invites me into a deeper knowing, a metaphysical awareness that life is not only what we see but what we choose to feel, what we choose to be.

I meditate on the wonder of it all: the harmony of light and life, the quiet companionship of nature, the quiet power of a heart aligned with love. However this day unfolds—whether filled with work or wandering, laughter or solitude—it is mine. A singular gift. A quiet miracle.

And it is wonderful.
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"Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me."  ~Henry David Thoreau

~Wylddane

“Every sunset brings the promise of a new dawn.”  ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

"A picture is worth a thousand words." Perhaps Confucius did say it, or perhaps it’s simply one of those truths that transcends authorship. Because last night, as the sky blazed with layered color—amber, lavender, indigo, gold—this image spoke to me not in words, but in feeling. It hummed. It sang. It was, quite simply, a symphony.

Yesterday was one of those perfect summer days that settles gently into the heart. It began with a slow and joyful glide across a northern lake on a pontoon boat—coffee warming our hands, laughter lingering in the morning air, baked goods passed between friends, fresh fruit bursting with summer sweetness. The shoreline drifted past in reverent silence as loons called across the water and pine trees whispered in the breeze. It was one of those rare moments where time seemed to pause, allowing us to simply be—present, whole, and grateful.

And then, at the end of the day, came this gift. This sunset.

When it arrived on my phone—sent by someone who shared in the magic of the morning—it struck me with such quiet force that I sat still for a long while, just absorbing its glow. This wasn't just a photograph. It was a benediction. A remembering. A promise.

The lake had stilled, reflecting the golden sky like a mirror of peace. The clouds, painted in swirling brushstrokes of twilight, seemed alive with motion and music. I imagined the earth exhaling, the light lingering as if reluctant to let go of the day. The picture captured more than color or shape—it captured essence. The kind of essence that makes you whisper "thank you" to no one and everyone at once.

And as I gazed at it, I thought: this is not just the end of a day. Somewhere, right now, the sun is rising. Morning is stretching and yawning into being. The world is cycling forward, carried by the quiet faith of rhythm and return.

That’s the promise of sunset: the certainty of dawn.

In this one captured image, I found all of it—the laughter of the morning, the silence of the lake, the warmth of friendship, the stillness of the woods, and the gentle truth that nothing beautiful is ever truly gone. It simply changes form, shifts light, becomes memory, becomes hope.

And so the sun sets. And so it rises.
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And in the hush between those two moments, we live.

~Wylddane

“Sometimes I need only to stand wherever I am to be blessed.”  ~Mary Oliver

In the tender hours before dawn, I often find myself drawn into the quiet embrace of my garden. It is a spirit-soothing ritual—one that begins while the world still slumbers and the first light of day is held gently behind the horizon. Barefoot or slippered, coffee in hand, I wander among green leaves and blooms, letting the stillness guide me back to myself.

This morning, like so many others, the garden greeted me with a symphony of birdsong. Warblers, robins, finches—each note a reminder that life still stirs, that something sacred remains. A cottontail rabbit, my silent morning companion, nibbled nearby in the cool shade. We are familiar to one another now, fellow seekers of peace.

And then—like a celestial curtain rising—the first golden beams of sunlight slipped through the trees and across the trellis. They found the deep purple clematis blooms clinging to their wooden frame, illuminating their velvet petals as if nature herself had lit a candle against the darkness. I paused there, in front of those blooms, my heart stirred by their beauty—and heavy with sorrow.

Because despite this splendor, my thoughts were anything but still this morning. They arrived jumbled and jagged, echoing the chaos of the world beyond my garden gate. I found myself unable to summon the usual joy for Independence Day. The idea of celebration felt hollow—no fireworks could distract from what has become of the country I once held dear.

I never imagined I would live to see the day when this nation would build camps that echo the darkest parts of history—yet here we are. Florida’s cruelty is not an outlier; it is a symptom of a greater unraveling. We cloak our atrocities in legality and flags, but a cage is still a cage, no matter how brightly it is painted.

Yesterday I came across a list of the world’s freest nations. Finland was first. Canada fifth. The United States? Fifty-seventh. I wasn’t surprised. Saddened, yes. Angered, yes. But not surprised. Freedom here has become an illusion—a word whispered in anthem and pledge, yet stripped of meaning in practice. The truth is stark: many of us are not free. Not truly.

And yet—I return to the clematis. To the rabbit. To the birdsong. To this small patch of earth that reminds me who I am. In this sacred space, I remember that mourning and beauty can coexist. That despair does not cancel out hope—it merely demands that we work harder to find it.
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I may not feel like celebrating a nation today, but I can celebrate this morning. This moment. The resilience of flowers. The quiet dignity of a rabbit. The healing power of a garden. And maybe, just maybe, in these small acts of reverence, I reclaim a freedom that no government can give—or take away.

~Wylddane

“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