​A lamp post rises skyward, holding both light and history. Draped below it, a flag—vivid in its colors, unapologetic in its presence—flutters against a summer sky. It is not just fabric. It is not merely decoration. It is a declaration.

Each June, Pride Month arrives not as a novelty, but as a necessary reminder: we are here. We have always been here. And we are not going away.
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To live authentically in this world—especially in the face of hatred, erasure, and misunderstanding—is an act of courage. Pride is more than parades and festivities. It is a deep affirmation of self. It is the ability to stand tall in your own skin and say: This is who I am. I am enough.

To accept oneself is to step into the fullness of being human. Not a curated version for safety or approval, but the whole, radiant truth. That kind of self-acceptance radiates outward, inviting others to do the same. And when people live openly and truthfully, the world changes—one life at a time.

The journey to this moment has been long and layered. The shadows of Stonewall still flicker across our collective memory. The aching grief of the AIDS epidemic remains etched in hearts and histories. We have marched. We have danced. We have buried friends. We have married. We have held hands in joy and in protest. We have come out—to families, to communities, to ourselves. Through tears and celebration, we have witnessed the arc of history bend—however slowly—toward justice and love.

In the early days, the gathering places were often hidden, controlled, coded. Twin City gin joints lit by neon but marked by fear. Then came the open arms and bright streets of San Francisco—its rainbow crosswalks and painted murals a kind of sanctuary. And now, for many, a quieter chapter: a peaceful life in the woods, where reflection grows like wildflowers and gratitude arrives with the morning sun.

We remember because we must. Not only for ourselves, but for the generations still to come. Young people just learning the language of love and identity need to know: you are not alone. You are beautiful. You are worthy. Your truth is not a burden—it is your brilliance.

Yes, there are voices that still seek to silence, laws that try to erase, forces that thrive on fear. But against them stand countless lives, lived openly and honestly, shining like the light atop that streetlamp. We are not going backward. We are not hiding. And we are never going away.

Dr. Wayne Dyer once said, “An attitude of gratitude allows us to adopt the radical humility that’s very persuasive in helping others connect with the Spirit that unites us all.” In that spirit, Pride becomes more than a celebration—it becomes a sacred honoring. Of all who came before. Of all who are still here. Of all who are yet to bloom.

To live in gratitude is to remember: even in struggle, there is beauty. Even in silence, a song. Even in the darkest hour, a light still shines.

And so we raise our flags—bold, brilliant, brave. Not just for ourselves. But for the promise of a world where everyone can be exactly who they are: fully human, wholly seen, deeply loved.
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"I am human, and nothing human can be alien to me."  ~Maya Angelou

~Wylddane





© 2025 Wylddane Productions, LLC

Sometimes, I like to wander.
Not with a destination in mind, but with a desire--
a quiet pull in my chest that says: go.
So I hop into my trusty car, cue up songs that know my heart, and take the roads less traveled—those winding backroads that seem to lead nowhere, and yet always bring me closer to something true.

It’s on these spontaneous pilgrimages that I find myself driving through dappled sunlight, windows down, the wind tousling my thoughts. I pass birch stands and meadows, glimpses of old barns leaning like elders with stories to tell. And then, suddenly, a turn I’ve never taken before reveals a hidden lake—still, deep blue, wrapped in a shawl of evergreens. Its surface holds the sky like a mirror, and in its reflection, I see more than trees. I see the quiet part of myself I sometimes forget.

I stop the car. I step out.
The world hushes.
Birdsong rises.
A deer watches from the edge of the forest, still as a prayer. Somewhere nearby, a raccoon scuttles through brush, and the breeze carries the earthy scent of pine and moss. In this sacred stillness, the noise of the world fades, and I remember how to be.

These places—the unnamed ponds, the unexpected rivers, the paths where no one walks—are not just landscapes. They are teachers. They remind me that I am part of something grand and generous. They ask nothing of me but presence. And in return, they offer belonging.
When I wander like this, I’m not lost. I’m found.

Because in the hush between miles, in the mirror of a lake no map could have shown me,
I don’t just discover nature.
I discover myself.
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~Wylddane

​

Apple River Musings

There is a river not far from here, called the Apple River. Most know it by its English name, but few know the deeper roots from which it flows.

In the Ojibwe language, it is called Waabiziipiniikaan-ziibi — "River Abundant with Swan Potatoes."

When French explorers came, they translated it partially, keeping only pomme — "apple" — from pomme de terre, meaning "apple from the earth," their term for potato.

By the time the English name was settled, only the word "apple" remained. The river lost something in translation — yet it also gained a kind of quiet mystery.

Still, if you sit along its banks, and if you listen, you can feel the deeper meaning whispering through the waters.

The river remembers.

It carries with it the memory of the people who lived here long before us, who knew the land not as a possession, but as a living, breathing spirit to be honored.

The Ojibwe, who named the river so thoughtfully, built their lives around values that feel both ancient and urgently needed today:

• Respect for Nature: A deep, abiding connection to the Great Spirit and to all living things — seeing trees, rivers, animals, and even stones as part of a sacred family.
• Sharing and Generosity: Life was built not around accumulation, but around giving. A gift was not a transaction, but a sacred act of connection.
• Reciprocity: An unspoken understanding that what we give to the world — to others, to the earth — eventually returns to us in one form or another.
• Knowledge and Wisdom: Learning was not hoarded; it was shared, honored, passed down like a treasured gift, binding generations together.
• Interconnectedness: Every being, every element, every moment was part of a single, vibrant web of life, woven through with respect and care.

Imagine if we lived by these values today — truly lived by them.
How much better, kinder, and more sustainable our world might be.

The other day, a friend posted something that struck me deeply.
"I have something a billionaire will never have... I have enough."

Enough.

Such a small word — and yet it holds an entire world of peace within it.

Enough means being rooted. It means knowing the taste of contentment. It means understanding that wealth has little to do with accumulation, and everything to do with belonging.

As I sit by the Apple River, watching its waters slip past stones and roots, sunlight glinting on its surface, I feel it: that sense of enough.

The sound of the water over the rocks is a song older than any words I know.

The scent of pine needles, sun-warmed earth, and the crisp bite of the river air fills my lungs with something I can only call gratitude.

Here, there is no race to win. No fortune to build. No world to conquer.
There is only the river, the trees, the sky, the life moving all around me.
And the quiet reminder that to live fully, we do not need more.

We need only to remember.
To respect.
To share.
To learn.
To love.
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And to know, deep down in our bones, that we already have enough.

~Wylddane

​When the Flowers Bloom

It is the Saturday before Easter Sunday—a day set apart, quiet yet filled with expectancy. The world seems to pause, suspended in a hush of reflection. This day, sacred in its stillness, invites us to contemplate the teachings of Jesus: of compassion and forgiveness, of humility and grace, of life beyond the grave and the eternal promise of renewal.

In this holy hush, I step outside, and the first thing I see is my apple tree in bloom. Its branches, once stark and bare through winter’s grasp, now shimmer with color—petals of deep pink and fuchsia bursting open like tiny declarations of hope. Each blossom a hymn. Each leaf a whisper of life reborn.

There’s something magical about this Saturday—not quite the celebration of Easter Sunday, but more a reverent waiting. A remembering. A looking inward. And amid this gentle space, memories stir—of dyed eggs drying on newspapers spread across the kitchen table, of sticky fingers from sneaking jellybeans, of laughter echoing through houses filled with family and food and the pastel pageantry of spring.

And yes—of Easter lilies standing tall in vases, their white trumpets echoing a silent hallelujah.

But the apple blossoms, oh—they offer their own kind of gospel. They speak in color, in fragrance, in the gentle unfolding of petals that somehow say: It is time. You made it through. Begin again.

Is this not, then, a lesson in itself?

When the flowers bloom, they teach us without words. They remind us of life’s eternal rhythm—that after every winter, there is a spring. After every silence, a song. After every sorrow, the possibility of joy. The world awakens, not in a blaze, but in a soft and certain unfolding.

It is a time of promise.

A promise that beauty will return.

That color will once again paint the canvas of our days.

That no matter how long the darkness lingers, the light is patient, waiting to rise.

So today, on this sacred Saturday, I give thanks—for blossoms and beliefs, for lilies and laughter, for colored eggs and quiet contemplation. For the sweet scent of the apple tree in bloom and the message it brings:
​
Live. Begin again. Let your heart flower with hope.

~Wylddane





© 2025 Wylddane Productions, LLC

April arrives on tiptoe, a gentle touch upon the earth, awakening it from winter’s lingering slumber. It does not burst forth all at once but unfolds gradually, like the petals of a flower kissed by the morning sun. Each day, something new stirs—the first blush of green upon the trees, the tiny shoots pushing through damp soil, the sweet chorus of birdsong greeting the dawn. The world, once hushed in winter’s embrace, finds its voice again.

April is a season of quiet transformation. The crisp bite of early mornings softens into the warmth of golden afternoons. Rain showers come and go, their rhythm tapping against windows, leaving behind the scent of damp earth and the shimmer of fresh-washed leaves. The garden, still tentative in its awakening, hums with promise. Here, among tender green leaves and buds preparing to unfurl, is a place of sanctuary—a space where the heart can settle, and the soul can breathe deeply.

There is a particular magic in sitting within an April garden. A steaming cup of coffee cradled between hands, the scent of rich soil and budding flowers drifting on the air. The bees, those tireless harbingers of spring, move from bloom to bloom, a quiet reminder that the world is stirring. A robin perches on the fence post, tilting its head as if sharing a secret. Nearby, daffodils nod in agreement with the breeze. Life is no longer waiting—it is happening now, all around us.

April teaches us patience and presence. It does not demand, but rather invites. It whispers, Come outside. Look. Listen. The miracle of renewal is unfolding before our eyes, not in a grand, sweeping gesture, but in a thousand small moments—the slow stretch of ivy toward the sun, the raindrop clinging to a rose petal, the warmth of an afternoon that lingers just a little longer than the one before.

In the garden, the cycle of life is tangible. Seeds planted now will break through the earth in time, their growth a quiet testament to faith and care. It is a lesson April offers freely—what we nurture today will bloom tomorrow. And so, with each gentle tending of the soil, each pause to admire a new blossom, we are reminded of nature’s wisdom: change does not come all at once, but in whispers, in softened edges, in the slow but certain turning of the wheel.

Welcome to my garden of April delights. Sit a while. Breathe in the sweetness of possibility. Let the soft hum of the world waking up remind you that life, in all its beauty, is always beginning anew.

~Wylddane


​

Hope and faith are the twin lanterns that guide us through the darkness, the quiet whispers that remind us to keep moving forward even when we feel lost. There are moments in life when shadows seem too heavy, when discouragement settles upon us like a thick fog, obscuring the path ahead. It is in these moments that hope and faith are most needed—not as grand, dramatic gestures, but as gentle reassurances that light still exists beyond the gloom. Even when we cannot see the sun, we know it is there, waiting to rise again.

A beautiful sunrise is like a stained glass window looking into a radiant new day, each hue and beam of light a reminder that life continues, that new beginnings are always possible. The golden warmth spilling across the horizon is nature’s quiet promise that no night lasts forever. Hope is like that sunrise—sometimes subtle, sometimes blazing, but always present for those willing to look toward it. Faith is what allows us to trust in its return, even when our own sky remains dark.

Taking life one step at a time is an act of faith in itself. We often become overwhelmed when we gaze too far ahead, trying to predict outcomes, fearing uncertainty. Yet, if we center ourselves in the present moment, we find strength. The now is the only space where we truly live—where our breath flows, where our hearts beat, where our hands touch the tangible world. In the now, we gather our energy. In the now, we find clarity.

Appreciating this moment, no matter how small, is an act of hope, a declaration that life still holds beauty and meaning.

We can choose where we place our focus. We can dwell in despair, feeding the darkness, or we can dwell in hope, faith, and love, nourishing the light. What we nurture within ourselves will grow and shape our world. It is not about denying hardships, but about choosing what will define us. Negativity may be loud, but it is not eternal. Love, hope, and faith—they are the forces that endure. They are what truly prevail.

On a deeper level, our thoughts, emotions, and focus shape the reality we experience. When we hold faith and hope in our hearts, we begin to see a world that reflects them back to us. The more we attune ourselves to the goodness around us, the more it expands. Life responds to what we believe, to what we choose to embrace. If we see the sunrise as a promise, if we trust in the strength of the present moment, if we cultivate hope rather than despair, then step by step, day by day, we create a life illuminated by the light we choose to follow.

~Wylddane

​

​Whenever I see a rose—whether it be an actual bloom or an image—I feel something deep inside me stir. It is not just the appreciation of its beauty, though that is undeniable. It is something more, something tied to memory and meaning. A single rose can transport me through time, bridging moments of my past with the present, reminding me of love, laughter, and the fleeting nature of time.

One particular rose—a single white bloom—has stayed with me in a way that surprises me even now. I took the photograph during a wine-tasting afternoon at Jessie's Grove in Lodi, California. The sun was warm, the air fragrant with the mingling scents of oak trees and vineyards stretching endlessly in every direction. My friends and I sipped rich, velvety wines, laughing and enjoying the simplicity of that perfect day. Then, amidst the rustic charm of the vineyard, I saw it: a single white rose, luminous in the golden afternoon light. Something about it—the way its petals curled so gently, the contrast of its softness against the rough, weathered wood of the garden fence—captured my attention. I snapped a picture, preserving not just its image, but the entire moment, the feeling of contentment, the joy of companionship, and the knowledge that such days, though fleeting, are to be treasured.

Roses have always held a special place in my life, not just because of their beauty but because they were my mother’s and father's favorite flower. Our family garden was filled with them—blooms of Sterling Silver, Peace, Circus, and American Beauty. Each name sounded like a poem, and each rose carried its own presence, its own story. My parents tended to them with care, nurturing them, speaking softly as they trimmed away dead leaves and watered their roots. They knew each variety intimately, could describe their scent, their growth patterns, their unique characteristics. In our garden, roses weren’t just flowers; they were companions, constants through seasons of change.

Many poets and writers have drawn attention to the paradox of the rose—a delicate flower born from a bush of thorns. They use it to symbolize the balance of beauty and pain, joy and suffering. And while it is true that the thorns exist, I have never dwelled on them. I prefer to see the rose for what it is: a thing of wonder, something to be admired and appreciated. Life, too, is full of contrasts, but why focus on the difficulties when there is so much beauty to embrace?

That single white rose at Jessie's Grove reminded me of this. It reminded me of my mother’s garden, of sunlit afternoons and deep conversations, of the sweetness of wine and the laughter of friends. It reminded me that beauty—whether in nature, in memory, or in fleeting moments—deserves our full attention. And so, whenever I see a rose, I do not think of its thorns. I think of its petals, its scent, the way it catches the light. I think of love, of time, of the way life’s most precious moments bloom, even if only for a little while.

~Wylddane

When my parents retired, they built a house by a quiet lake in the northwoods of Wisconsin. It was a place of peace, of long reflections, and of life lived simply but richly. The house overlooked the water, where gentle ripples mirrored the sky, and loons called in the twilight. But when I think of that home, it is not the lake I see first—it is my father’s gardens.

To the north of the house, his hands shaped the land into a bounty of food: rows of corn stretching toward the sky, vines of beans and peas curling up their stakes, potatoes hidden beneath dark, rich soil. Strawberries and raspberries ripened under the summer sun, while tomatoes—golden and red—hung like ornaments from their vines. The work here was steady, predictable, rewarding. My father understood this rhythm well.

To the south, however, was where the magic happened. There, the earth was not tilled for sustenance, but for beauty. My father’s flower gardens were a place of color and quiet wonder, winding pathways leading through dahlias, gladiolas, begonias, roses, lilacs. Impatiens and coleus spilled over the edges, painting the landscape in hues both vibrant and soft. Birds darted among the blooms, their songs blending with the whispering breeze.

At the entrance to these gardens, he built a gateway—wooden lattice, painted green and white, with two benches nestled beneath. This was the threshold to his sanctuary. From those benches, one could sit and simply be. My parents often did just that, side by side in the late afternoon, not speaking much, just listening—to the birds, the rustling leaves, the soft lapping of the lake. It was the kind of silence that spoke of understanding, of lives intertwined over time.

My father was a good man. He was also stubborn, and I, his child, was no different. The acorn does not fall far from the tree, does it? In my teenage years, we clashed often, both unwilling to yield. Yet, with the clarity that time grants, I see now what I could not always see then—his strength, his patience, his quiet kindness.
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I miss him. There is so much I would tell him now if I could. But in my mind, I return to that bench, to that entrance to the garden. I imagine us all there—him, my mother, myself—basking in the simple blessing of being together. And when I close my eyes, I can walk once more through my father’s garden, where love still lingers in every petal and leaf.

~Wylddane

The crisp morning air bites at my cheeks as I step into the hushed sanctuary of the winter forest. The world is still, save for the soft crunch of my boots on frost-laced needles. The towering firs stand solemn and wise, their branches dusted with ice crystals that shimmer in the first golden light of dawn. There is magic here, woven into the quiet, humming in the spaces between breath and snowfall.

Walking deeper into the woods, I feel the weight of the world soften. The usual noise of life—the chatter of the mind, the urgency of the clock—fades into the sacred hush of nature’s stillness. It is in this silence that blessings reveal themselves: the whisper of the wind weaving through the branches, the sharp scent of pine, the intricate frost patterns adorning each needle. These are not grand gestures, but small, quiet gifts—reminders that wonder is ever-present for those who choose to see.

Winter has a way of distilling truth. The stark beauty of the frozen world mirrors the clarity of thought that comes when distractions fall away. Each exhaled breath curls into the air, a fleeting, visible testament to life’s impermanence, yet also to its sacred presence. I walk through this cathedral of trees, and gratitude rises in me like the morning mist—gratitude for the solitude, for the crystalline light, for the simple miracle of being here, now.

In this moment, I understand that blessings are not merely bestowed; they are noticed, received with an open heart. The forest whispers its wisdom, and I listen. I am both small and infinite, a traveler through time and season, warmed by the quiet magic of the winter woods.
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~Wylddane