"In the Garden of Souls" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“The soul is the same in all living creatures, although the body of each is different.”
~Hippocrates
This morning, as the world gently exhaled the hush of night, I stepped into my garden. The sun had not yet risen, but the sky carried a soft, pearlescent light that seemed to hover rather than shine. Everything felt hushed and holy — as if the day itself were pausing in reverence before beginning.
I stopped to admire the blossoms—pale and golden in the pre-dawn glow. Their petals held the light like memory holds love, quiet and tender. A cardinal’s song broke the silence, bright and deliberate. Then an oriole joined in, its fluting notes weaving through the trill of a wren and the hearty, familiar greeting of a robin. Their music danced in the air, each bird offering its voice to the morning symphony.
Overhead, a flock of Canadian geese traced a V across the awakening sky, their calls a bold counterpoint to the melody below. They flew with purpose, their wings slicing the silence, heading toward the lake just a block away. Below them, at my feet, a cottontail rabbit appeared—calm, composed, unafraid. We shared the moment as fellow travelers, not as stranger and animal.
And in that quiet, sacred instant, a quote came to mind like a whisper from the universe: "I believe animals have souls; but I am unsure about some people." ~Anonymous.
It struck me as both humorous and haunting. For standing there, embraced by the soft breath of morning and surrounded by creatures simply being what they are, I felt the truth of it settle into my bones. What if we have it all wrong? What if the soul isn’t a human invention, but the very essence that animates everything? The song of a bird, the trust of a rabbit, the bloom of a flower reaching for light — are these not expressions of soul?
Who are we, as humans, to presume dominion over the mystery of spirit? Must the soul wear a face like ours? Or is the soul simply the luminous thread that runs through all life — woven into feather, fur, petal, and leaf?
In that moment, the garden became more than a garden. It became a sanctuary. A place where I remembered, not for the first time and hopefully not for the last, that we are not the only ones graced with spirit. We are part of a vast, humming symphony of being. One that plays on regardless of our opinions, our titles, or our doubts.
The morning moved on, as mornings do. But I remained still a little longer, soul listening to soul, feeling the sacred pulse of life all around me—soft-footed, feathered, blooming, and blessed.
~Wylddane
~Hippocrates
This morning, as the world gently exhaled the hush of night, I stepped into my garden. The sun had not yet risen, but the sky carried a soft, pearlescent light that seemed to hover rather than shine. Everything felt hushed and holy — as if the day itself were pausing in reverence before beginning.
I stopped to admire the blossoms—pale and golden in the pre-dawn glow. Their petals held the light like memory holds love, quiet and tender. A cardinal’s song broke the silence, bright and deliberate. Then an oriole joined in, its fluting notes weaving through the trill of a wren and the hearty, familiar greeting of a robin. Their music danced in the air, each bird offering its voice to the morning symphony.
Overhead, a flock of Canadian geese traced a V across the awakening sky, their calls a bold counterpoint to the melody below. They flew with purpose, their wings slicing the silence, heading toward the lake just a block away. Below them, at my feet, a cottontail rabbit appeared—calm, composed, unafraid. We shared the moment as fellow travelers, not as stranger and animal.
And in that quiet, sacred instant, a quote came to mind like a whisper from the universe: "I believe animals have souls; but I am unsure about some people." ~Anonymous.
It struck me as both humorous and haunting. For standing there, embraced by the soft breath of morning and surrounded by creatures simply being what they are, I felt the truth of it settle into my bones. What if we have it all wrong? What if the soul isn’t a human invention, but the very essence that animates everything? The song of a bird, the trust of a rabbit, the bloom of a flower reaching for light — are these not expressions of soul?
Who are we, as humans, to presume dominion over the mystery of spirit? Must the soul wear a face like ours? Or is the soul simply the luminous thread that runs through all life — woven into feather, fur, petal, and leaf?
In that moment, the garden became more than a garden. It became a sanctuary. A place where I remembered, not for the first time and hopefully not for the last, that we are not the only ones graced with spirit. We are part of a vast, humming symphony of being. One that plays on regardless of our opinions, our titles, or our doubts.
The morning moved on, as mornings do. But I remained still a little longer, soul listening to soul, feeling the sacred pulse of life all around me—soft-footed, feathered, blooming, and blessed.
~Wylddane
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