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

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 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

“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

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

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

There are days when memory arrives like a gentle breeze—unexpected, tender, and deeply welcome. This morning, it was a pair of images that carried me back: the sun-dappled entrance to a garden, and an old black-and-white photo of a man reading to a child. Both evoke my father, who has been gone now for nearly fifty years, and yet, in so many ways, never left.

When I think of him, I see his hands—weathered and strong—shaping wood in his workshop, coaxing life from soil in the gardens he so lovingly tended. He was a man who found beauty in creation, in doing, in the quiet acts that spoke louder than words. There was no need for long speeches or emotional declarations.

The lessons came through the rhythm of his labor, the care he gave to the earth, and the attention he gave to me—especially in those moments when he read to me.

I don’t remember the exact stories, but I remember his voice. His presence. The sound of the pages turning. I remember how safe and loved I felt, curled beside him. Those early years gave me something unshakable.

As one writer once said: "There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his children, and gradually over the years, it gets to be long enough for them to pick up in their hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself."

As a teenager, that thread was stretched thin. We clashed, as fathers and sons often do, each of us certain of our rightness, neither willing to yield. But time, as it does, softened the sharp edges of youth. Now, with the perspective of years, I look back with understanding. With gratitude. With love.

I have come to realize that in many ways, I have become my father. Not in every detail, but in the essence of who I am. I take joy in the morning light, in the quiet of a well-tended garden. I find comfort in the feel of wood beneath my fingers, in the slow, steady work of creation. And I try to live by the unspoken values he modeled: honesty, integrity, and a quiet strength.

On this Father's Day, I honor not only my own father, but all fathers who shape lives with their presence—whether through whispered bedtime stories, soil-streaked hands, or simply by showing up again and again with love.

He is still with me. In the rustle of leaves in summer. In the scent of sawdust. In the softness of an old story remembered. And in the man I have become.
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“My father didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.”
— Clarence Budington Kelland

~Wylddane

“The soul is not where it lives, but what it loves.”
~Patricia Nell Warren

It rained last night. It rained all night. And as I sit here this morning, the rain continues—a steady whisper against the windowpane. Outside, the forest is cloaked in mist and shadows. The trees seem to lean into the moment, softened by the gray hush of a rainy morning. It is dark, it is gloomy. And yet—inside—it is anything but.

A fire crackles in the hearth, sending gentle waves of warmth across the room. A lamp glows with golden light, and on the table beside me, a mug of hot coffee steams beside an open book. Classical music flows through the stillness—Saint-Saëns, Tchaikovsky—providing a soundtrack to this quiet, contemplative hour.

There is something about mornings like this that make me both reflective and introspective. The past, with all its layered memories, seems to hover closer on days such as this. I welcome it. The memories are part of the fabric of who I am. Yet I do not live there. I am here. In this moment. In this room. On this rainy Saturday morning. And I am grateful.

This peaceful moment holds a truth I often return to: gratitude begins not in grand declarations, but in quiet awareness. The scent of coffee. The softness of firelight. The way music can reach into your soul and loosen the knots of yesterday. These are the simple treasures that shape a life well lived.

Dr. Wayne Dyer wrote, “Spend time close to home in awe over the simple treasures that make up your life.” That line echoes in my heart today. Awe, not just appreciation. A sacred recognition that ordinary moments are, in fact, extraordinary.

As I sit here, trying to give shape to these feelings with words, I’m reminded of something else I’ve come to understand: my joy comes from writing. My father was a gardener—hands in the earth, nurturing growth from seed to bloom. I have two dear friends who are gardeners of flowers and food. I, in my own way, am a gardener too. A gardener of words.

Patricia Nell Warren once called herself a “wordsmith,” but I like to think of myself as someone who tends to language with care—coaxing words into bloom, hoping they take root in a reader’s heart. When I’m writing, truly writing, I feel a deep and centered peace. I feel happy.
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Dr. Dyer also said, “Expand your reality to the point where you pursue what you love doing and excel at it.”

Yes. This is my Saturday intention. To write. To reflect. To grow. To pursue what brings joy, not only to myself but perhaps, in some small way, to others.
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Outside, the rain still falls. But inside, I feel the firelight of gratitude—steady, warm, and quietly glowing.

~Wylddane