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

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

​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

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

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

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

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

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

When I lived in Pacifica, CA, I always took a New Year's Day walk along the beach...it was a peaceful moment of connection with nature and a time of reflection. The coastal sunset, with the sound of the waves meeting the shore and the sky turning shades of gold and purple, was a perfect setting in which to pause, let go of the past year, and absorb the quiet energy of a new beginning. There’s something about the ocean, always in motion yet eternally constant, that mirrors our own lives: ever-changing but anchored in a rhythm of renewal. Walking along the shore as the sun dips below the horizon on New Year’s Day is a beautiful way to ground ourselves, to feel both the weight and freedom of time passing, and to recognize that each day holds the potential for something new and meaningful. The memory of those sunsets carry a sense of peace and hope that we can tap into whenever we need it.

~Wylddane