Yesterday, as I wandered through the garden paths, the brilliance of blue-violet caught my eye—a sudden shimmer against the green. I paused. There it was—the first wild iris of the season in bloom. Delicate yet strong, with petals like silk painted by twilight, the flower seemed to lift the entire garden into a moment of reverence. It was a quiet epiphany, the kind that calls not for words, but for presence.

The wild iris—specifically the Northern Blue Flag Iris (Iris versicolor)—is no stranger to the damp ditches and lakeshores of Northwestern Wisconsin. It grows with the confidence of something meant to be here, a native soul in the landscape. Though common in location, it is rare in beauty. Nearby, the elusive Dwarf Lake Iris (Iris lacustris) blooms only where sunlight meets shadow along ancient lakeshore forests. Both are silent witnesses to the rhythm of seasons, quietly blooming where they have always bloomed—regardless of whether we notice.

But the iris has long been noticed. Among the Ojibwe people of this region, the Harlequin Blue Flag Iris was not only admired—it was revered. Carried as a charm against snakes, used in poultices for wounds, steeped and crushed and inhaled to prevent illness, soothe aches, and even treat tuberculosis. Its scent, its root, its form—each part of the plant held meaning. Its usefulness arose not just from practicality, but from a deeper understanding of the natural world’s sacred intelligence.

Standing there, marveling at the bloom, I wanted to call out, “Look! Look at this lovely flower, this echo of history, this soft explosion of blue!” I wanted others to see its radiance, to feel the connection it offers—to culture, to earth, to spirit.

And then I heard the words of Thich Nhat Hanh gently rise in my memory:

“Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the whole earth revolves.”

The same could be said of looking at a flower.

Thich Nhat Hanh taught that mindfulness is not reserved for the cushion or the retreat, but belongs in every breath we take, every step we make. Walking, eating, even simply noticing—these become sacred acts when done in awareness. As I stood in my garden, breathing in the sight of that single iris, I was practicing exactly what he described: being alive to this moment.

And in this flower, the truth of interbeing revealed itself. The iris is not just a plant. It is sunlight, water, soil, memory. It is the breath of the deer who passed through last night, the blessing of the spring rain, the echo of Ojibwe hands who once carried it for healing. I, too, am part of this web, this living conversation of roots and sky. The iris blooms, and so do I.

In times as turbulent and uncertain as these, it becomes ever more vital to root ourselves in such awareness. Not as a form of escape, but as an act of resilience. As the world shouts and spins, we can choose to center ourselves in the simple miracle of now. We can allow beauty to strengthen us. We can draw courage from the deep traditions of those who walked before us, who knew that plants can be protectors, that silence can be medicine, that peace can begin with paying attention.

This morning, one wild iris bloomed. It was enough to remind me: everything is connected. Everything is alive. Everything matters.
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“In some Native languages the term for plants translates to ‘those who take care of us.’”
~Robin Wall Kimmerer

~Wylddane

​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.
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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

"Spring arrives at Spangler's Landing like a whispered promise carried on the breeze, where the St. Croix River awakens in shimmering ripples, and the forest hums with the songs of returning birds. The earth stirs, the ice loosens its grip, and life blooms anew beneath the soft golden light of a lengthening day." 

~Wylddane

The Road in the January Snow: A Meditation on Journey and Destination

The road in January snow is both an invitation and a mystery. In its silent stretch, covered with the quiet embrace of snow, it offers the promise of something ahead. Yet, at the same time, it beckons us to pay attention to the footprints we leave behind, to the way we move through the world as we move through the seasons. It is, in a sense, both destination and journey, intertwined in the delicate balance of the moment.

On a cold, snow-covered road, the destination may seem distant, even unreachable. The winter landscape holds an air of stillness, and the road disappears into the horizon, its end concealed beneath the weight of snow and the shroud of the season. Yet, it is precisely this uncertainty that calls us to the road—to the quiet thrill of discovery. Each step forward becomes a question: Where will this lead?

But while the destination may remain obscured, the way we move forward shapes our experience in ways the arrival never could. With each step on that frozen path, we are met with a moment of pause and reflection. The snow demands that we slow down, to consider the depth of each footprint in the soft earth. The cold air sharpens our senses, and the silence invites introspection. The journey, in its quiet slowness, is an opportunity to find meaning not just in where we are headed, but in the act of traveling itself.

It is easy to become consumed by the idea of a final destination, to rush toward what we think is waiting for us. Yet, the snow-covered road reminds us that there is beauty in the pause, in the careful navigation of the present moment. How we move—gently, thoughtfully, perhaps even hesitantly—becomes as important as the place to which we are headed. The journey teaches us how to appreciate the unfolding of each moment, as each step becomes a reflection of who we are, and who we are becoming.
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In this way, both the destination and the journey are necessary. The destination provides a reason to keep moving, a point on the horizon to strive toward. But it is the way we move along the path that teaches us what it means to truly arrive. Just as a road in January snow can be both a place of mystery and revelation, so too is our path in life—a delicate balance between where we are going and how we choose to be as we get there.

~Wylddane

A frozen slough in winter offers a beautiful metaphor for the cyclical nature of life and the hidden forces that persist even when things appear dormant. In the summer, it's vibrant with activity—alive with creatures, plants, and a rich ecosystem, all of which seem to overflow with energy. But as winter comes, everything goes quiet, still, and covered with ice. To the casual observer, the slough seems to be dead, lifeless even.

Yet beneath the frozen surface, there is a hum, a subtle music that speaks to the unseen activity taking place below. This hum is the ongoing process of life that never truly halts, even when its outward expressions are masked by cold and silence.

Metaphysically, the frozen slough reminds us that life is not always visible in its most obvious forms. There are times in our lives, too, when things appear stagnant, when our growth or progress seems to pause, when we are “frozen” in place by challenges, hardships, or periods of introspection. Yet, just as beneath the ice, life is still moving in cycles, nourishing itself for the eventual thaw, so too is our internal world still working, even when outward progress is not apparent.

This hum beneath the surface can be seen as the deeper currents of consciousness—our subconscious, our inner wisdom, our soul’s energy—continuing to grow, heal, and shift, even when the external world feels still or cold. It invites us to trust the rhythm of life and to recognize that sometimes rest and apparent dormancy are necessary for transformation. Eventually, the ice will melt, and the warmth of spring will return, bringing new life, just as the quiet period of winter makes room for future growth.
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So, the frozen slough teaches us patience, the value of hidden growth, and the understanding that quietude does not equate to stagnation. Life, in all its forms, continues to move and hum beneath the surface, even when it appears still on the outside.

~Wylddane