"Evening in Pacifica" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
From the window of my old home in Pacifica, California, I once looked out upon a view that wrapped me in comfort—framed by pine branches and golden light, hills rolling like a lullaby into the embrace of the ocean fog. That view, now a painting, still sings to me. It holds laughter and the clink of glasses at Surf Spot, candlelit conversations at Barolo, the simple comfort of warm dishes shared at Tam’s. It holds the voices of those I hold dearest—friends who are more than friends, chosen family whose presence marked birthdays, holidays, and the quiet in-betweens. Together we feasted not only on food and wine, but on love, on joy, on the gift of being together.
Looking at the painting, I can almost hear it again—the sea breeze rustling the trees, the hum of a guitar from the Surf Spot stage, the burst of laughter from a shared story, a remembered toast to life and its tangled wonder. These aren’t just memories; they are pieces of my soul, carefully woven into the fabric of who I am.
And yet, life, ever flowing, moved me onward—northward—to a wee cottage in the woods where the pine trees are taller, the silence deeper, and the seasons more intimate. It is spring now. The northwoods are awakening with a hush and a hymn. A redwing blackbird calls from the edge of the marsh, robins sing their morning songs, and the air carries the promise of warmth. It may reach 80 degrees today, and already the sun slants through the trees in a golden hush that feels like blessing.
I know I cannot live in the past. But I also know I don’t need to. Because those moments—the ones etched in shared meals and deep conversation, in gentle glances and celebrations of life—still live within me. They don’t tether me; they steady me. They remind me of how fully I have lived, and how much more there still is to live.
Today, as birdsong rises with the light, I sit with gratitude. For the Pacifica days and the northwoods now. For the friends who shaped me, and the solitude that shelters me. For the memories that linger like the scent of salt and eucalyptus, and for this brand-new morning blooming just outside my window.
It is a new magical day. And I am here, heart full, listening to the past, loving the present.
~Wylddane
Looking at the painting, I can almost hear it again—the sea breeze rustling the trees, the hum of a guitar from the Surf Spot stage, the burst of laughter from a shared story, a remembered toast to life and its tangled wonder. These aren’t just memories; they are pieces of my soul, carefully woven into the fabric of who I am.
And yet, life, ever flowing, moved me onward—northward—to a wee cottage in the woods where the pine trees are taller, the silence deeper, and the seasons more intimate. It is spring now. The northwoods are awakening with a hush and a hymn. A redwing blackbird calls from the edge of the marsh, robins sing their morning songs, and the air carries the promise of warmth. It may reach 80 degrees today, and already the sun slants through the trees in a golden hush that feels like blessing.
I know I cannot live in the past. But I also know I don’t need to. Because those moments—the ones etched in shared meals and deep conversation, in gentle glances and celebrations of life—still live within me. They don’t tether me; they steady me. They remind me of how fully I have lived, and how much more there still is to live.
Today, as birdsong rises with the light, I sit with gratitude. For the Pacifica days and the northwoods now. For the friends who shaped me, and the solitude that shelters me. For the memories that linger like the scent of salt and eucalyptus, and for this brand-new morning blooming just outside my window.
It is a new magical day. And I am here, heart full, listening to the past, loving the present.
~Wylddane
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