“The influence of a mother in the lives of her children is beyond calculation.”
~James E. Faust

There are some mornings that arrive softly, almost reverently, as though the world itself understands the tenderness of the day.

Mother’s Day is one of those mornings.

For some, it is a day filled with laughter around kitchen tables, phone calls from children and grandchildren, flowers set gently into vases, and the warm embrace of lives still walking side by side.

For others, it is quieter.

It is memory.

It is the ache of absence mingled with gratitude. It is the realization that although a mother may no longer walk this earth, her love still moves through the chambers of our lives like sunlight lingering in a room long after dawn.

A mother’s love is like a candle. Even when the flame is gone, the light remains.

It remains in the kindness we extend to strangers.
In the way we comfort a friend.
In the recipes we still prepare by memory.
In the laughter that suddenly sounds like hers.
In the resilience we summon during difficult days because somewhere, deep within us, she once taught us how to endure.

Love such as that does not disappear.

It changes form.

It becomes part of the architecture of the soul.

And perhaps that is the quiet miracle of this day. Mother’s Day is not solely about presence or absence. It is about honoring love itself—the kind of love that nurtures, protects, forgives, encourages, and believes in us even when we cannot believe in ourselves.

Some mothers are here in body.
Some are here in memory.
But both continue to shape the world.

This morning, as sunlight slowly spills across the northwoods and turns the fresh spring leaves into stained glass of emerald and gold, I pause with a steaming mug of coffee cradled between my hands. Somewhere in the wee cottage, soft classical music drifts gently through the quiet rooms like a blessing. Outside the window, the flowering shrubs glow in the early light, impossibly beautiful in their brief season of bloom.

And for a moment, gratitude rises above sorrow.

Gratitude for the mothers still with us.
Gratitude for the mothers we carry within us.
Gratitude for every act of love that continues long after words have faded into silence.

Love, after all, is never truly lost.

It echoes forward through generations, through memories, through gestures both small and profound.

And so this beautiful Mother’s Day begins—with remembrance, with tenderness, with gratitude, and with love.

And so, this day starts.
​
~Wylddane

At 3:17 in the morning, Liam woke to the sound of rain.

Not thunder. Not the hard rattling fury of a spring storm. Just rain—soft and steady—as though the night itself had leaned close to the northwoods and begun whispering secrets into the darkness.

Beside the bed, Mabel lifted her head from the braided rug and blinked once, her amber eyes reflecting the pale silver glow from the window. Outside, the world had become watercolor.

Liam lay still for a moment in the little cabin overlooking Stillwater Gleam. The window was cracked open an inch, and the scent drifting through was almost unbearably alive—wet cedar, pine needles, damp earth, and the faint sweetness of thawed moss warming beneath the rain.

Tap.

Tisshh.

Tap.

The rain touched the roof with gentle fingers.

Mabel rose quietly and padded to the window. Liam followed, wrapping an old flannel shirt around his shoulders before easing himself into the chair beside the lamp.

The lake beyond the trees had vanished into mist.

Somewhere out in the darkness, a loon called once—a low, lonely note that dissolved into the rain-soaked silence.

Liam smiled faintly.

“Can’t sleep either, huh, girl?” he whispered.

Mabel’s tail thumped softly against the floorboards.

The rain deepened slightly, not louder exactly, but fuller somehow, as if the forest itself had exhaled.

And then Liam noticed it.
A light.
Far across the shoreline.
Golden and small.
Bean & Birch.

Even at this hour, the little café sometimes glowed through the rainy darkness like a lantern for wandering souls. Maren often baked before dawn, and Lucy claimed the old espresso machine “liked the quiet hours best.”

Liam found himself imagining the coffee gang there already.

Erica seated near the front window with a steaming mug clasped in both hands.

Sam carving tiny shapes into scraps of cedar while pretending not to listen to everyone’s conversations.

Martha humming softly while organizing flowers no one had asked her to arrange.

Toby probably telling some impossible story involving fishing bait, raccoons, and a canoe.

The thought warmed him.

Rainy nights had a strange way of gathering people together—even when they were apart.

He slipped on his boots.

Mabel immediately perked up.

“Yes,” Liam laughed softly. “I knew that’d get your attention.”

A few minutes later they stepped outside beneath the covered porch. The rain kissed the world in silver sheets. Puddles shimmered like dark mirrors. The young maple beside the cabin bowed gracefully beneath jeweled drops of water.

Mabel trotted ahead into the wet grass, entirely delighted with life.

Liam stood still for a long moment beneath the porch roof.

The rain was washing everything clean.

Not just streets and branches and winter dust.

Something deeper.
Something quieter.

For weeks he had carried a heaviness he could not quite name—the lingering ache of winter, perhaps. Or the exhaustion of too many thoughts and too much noise in the world.

But here, at 3:17 in the morning, in the middle of a soft May rain, none of that seemed able to survive.

The night did not demand anything from him.

It simply allowed him to be.

Across the lake, Bean & Birch glowed like a tiny golden promise against the dark.

And suddenly Liam knew exactly what morning would bring:
Coffee.
Friends.
Laughter.

The smell of cinnamon rolls and wet jackets drying near the stove.

The comforting music of ordinary lives woven gently together.

The rain continued falling.
Softly.
Steadily.

A blessing descending one silver drop at a time.

* * * * * * * * * *

Last night, sometime deep in the quiet hours before dawn, a soft gentle rain came to the northwoods.

Not a storm.
Not violence.
Not the sharp cracking drama of thunder and lightning.

Just rain.
Gentle rain.

The kind that taps softly against the windows like a lullaby meant for the weary soul.

And now morning has arrived.

The sunlight filtering through the east-facing windows has turned the newborn leaves into glowing shades of gold and emerald green. Puddles along the sidewalk shimmer like little mirrors reflecting pieces of the waking sky. Somewhere nearby, a robin trills its joyful morning greeting as if announcing to the world that spring has truly arrived at last.

I sit quietly with my steaming mug of coffee and listen to Eric Whitacre’s I Thank You God for Most This Amazing Day.

And for a moment, everything feels wonderfully, almost painfully, alive.

Perhaps that is one of the quiet miracles of a rainy May night.

It washes away more than dust.
It rinses the spirit clean.

The rain becomes a kind of baptism for the earth—a sacred hush descending over streets and trees and rooftops. While we sleep, the flowers drink deeply. The roots awaken. The forests breathe. The weary places within us soften.

This morning the world feels renewed.

And perhaps we can be renewed as well.

How often life asks us to begin again.

To release yesterday’s worries.
To loosen our grip upon fear, regret, exhaustion, bitterness, or sorrow.

The rain reminds us that renewal does not always arrive dramatically.

Sometimes healing enters quietly.

Softly.

Drop by silver drop.

Langston Hughes once wrote:

“Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.”

This morning, I think the rain did exactly that.

It sang the weary world to sleep.

And now morning has answered with birdsong, sunlight, green leaves, and hope.

I take another sip of delicious coffee and gaze out upon this beautiful May morning here in the northwoods. The puddles sparkle. The trees sway gently in the breeze. The world feels washed clean and full of promise once again.

And so I begin this day reminding myself that life, even now, remains filled with quiet miracles.

A soft rain.
A robin’s song.
The scent of wet earth.
A warm mug held between grateful hands.
A moment of peace.
And perhaps that is enough.
Perhaps that is everything.
​
“The earth laughs in flowers.”
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

~Wylddane

“Better to light a candle than curse the darkness.”   ~Proverb

May 5 — A Morning of Light Remembered

In the hush between night and morning,
when the world is still soft with shadow,
a single flame remembers.

It flickers in a window--
not for warmth,
but for remembrance.

On this day, May 5,
we honor a quiet courage--
the kind that endured long nights,
drawn curtains,
and whispered hope.

And then…
the light returned.

Not all at once,
not with thunder--
but candle by candle,
window by window,
heart by heart.

This morning, as sunlight slips gently across the glass,
as coffee steams in the quiet of a waking room,
we remember that light is never truly lost--
only waiting to be rekindled.
​
So let us live this day
as they once did in that first breath of freedom--
with gratitude,
with reverence,
and with a small, steady flame
burning bravely in the window of the soul.

~Wylddane



​

“Let us be grateful to people who make us happy;
they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.”  ~Marcel Proust

The coffee is warm in my hands, its gentle steam rising like a quiet prayer into the soft light of morning. Through the east-facing window, sunlight spills across the room—not boldly, not urgently—but with a kind of patient grace, as if it knows there is no need to hurry this moment.

Outside, the world is waking in shades of green and gold. Leaves—some new, some still remembering winter—shift lightly in the breeze. And there, almost as if framed by the widow, that vivid bloom…bold, pink, unapologetically alive…reaches into the day as if it understands something we sometimes forget:

Life is always becoming.
And perhaps that is where it begins for us, too.

Dr. Max Planck once said, “When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.”

And how true that feels in this quiet hour.

The same tree, the same branch, the same morning…
Yet today, we see it differently.
​
Not just as a branch, but as a cradle of color.
Not just as leaves, but as a story of endurance.
Not just as light, but as a gift freely given.

Because it is not what we look at…
it is what we see.

And what we see is shaped, so often, by gratitude.

Gratitude softens the sharp edges of the world.

It turns routine into ritual,
noise into music,
and moments into something sacred.

A sip of coffee becomes more than habit—it becomes presence.
A beam of sunlight becomes more than light—it becomes blessing.
A simple flower becomes more than beauty—it becomes a quiet miracle of persistence and grace.

When we choose gratitude, we are not denying the hardships of life.
We are simply choosing where to rest our gaze.

And in doing so, we begin to notice something extraordinary:

That even in an ordinary morning…
there is peace.
There is beauty.
There is enough.

So as this May day unfolds—whether it brings laughter or challenge, stillness or motion—perhaps we carry this with us:

To look again.
To see more deeply.
To give thanks, even for the smallest things.
And in that gentle shift…
the whole world changes.

~Wylddane

The veil was thin.

Thin as the morning dew that clung to the grasses along the shore of Stillwater Gleam, each drop holding a fragment of the waking sky.
Erica felt it the moment she stepped outside.

Not cold, not warmth—but something in between. A presence. A quiet hum beneath the surface of things.

It was the first of May.

Behind her, the lights of Bean & Birch Coffee House still glowed softly in the early dawn. Maren had opened early—earlier than usual—because something about the morning had insisted upon it. Lucy was already inside, setting out fresh scones. Sam leaned against the counter with a mug in hand, as though he had been called there without quite knowing why.

“Come on,” Erica had said.
And they had come.

Now they moved quietly along the narrow path that wound through the pines toward the small clearing just beyond the bend in the shoreline. Liam was there too, Mabel at his side, the border collie alert but uncharacteristically silent. Even Toby and Martha followed without their usual chatter, as though the morning itself had asked for reverence.

No one spoke.
They didn’t need to.
The woods were speaking.

A soft mist hovered just above the ground, weaving through the trunks of the trees like something alive. The scent of damp earth and crushed fern rose with each step. Somewhere, a thrush called—a clear, fluted note that seemed to echo deeper than sound.

They reached the clearing just as the first hint of lavender light touched the horizon.

And there—unexpected, impossible, yet somehow right—stood a simple pole at the center of the space.

Not tall. Not grand.
But wrapped with ribbons.
Red and cream.
They stirred gently, though the air was still.

Maren let out the softest breath. “Well… that wasn’t here yesterday.”

“No,” Sam said quietly. “It wasn’t.”

Erica stepped forward, drawn without hesitation. The dew shimmered along the grasses at her feet, and when she knelt, she saw it—the hawthorn just at the edge of the clearing, its blossoms pale and delicate, its thorns catching the morning light.

She reached out, brushing her fingers along a bead of dew.

It was colder than she expected.

Alive.

Without thinking, she touched it to her cheek.

A small, sharp breath escaped her lips—not from the chill, but from something deeper. A spark. A recognition. As though something long quiet within her had stirred.

Behind her, Mabel gave a low, soft whine.

Liam turned.

“Did you hear that?”

At first, there was nothing.

Then--
Laughter.
Not loud.
Not near.
But present.

It moved through the trees like wind, though the branches did not sway. The ribbons on the pole began to shift, slowly, as though responding to a rhythm no one else could hear.

Lucy reached for Maren’s hand.

“Tell me I’m not the only one—”
“You’re not,” Maren whispered.

At the far edge of the clearing, where an old oak stood rooted and unmoving, the light gathered.

Not brighter.
But deeper.
And for the briefest moment—no more than a breath—they saw him.

A figure shaped from bark and leaf, from shadow and green light. His presence was not frightening, but vast—ancient in a way that made the heart pause. His eyes held something like recognition.

Not of them.
But of the moment.
Of the turning.

He inclined his head—just slightly.
Acknowledgment.
Welcome.
Then the sun broke.

A single beam of gold cut through the trees, striking the clearing like an arrow of light.

And he was gone.
The mist lifted.
The ribbons fell still.

The woods erupted into birdsong—robins, warblers, finches, their voices weaving together into something bright and undeniable.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then Toby laughed—a soft, disbelieving sound.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose that answers the question of whether May has arrived.”

Sam shook his head slowly. “I don’t think May arrives,” he said. “I think… it reveals itself.”

Erica stood, touching her cheek once more.

“It’s here,” she said simply.

They turned back toward the path, toward the warmth of coffee and the familiar comfort of Bean & Birch—but something had shifted. Not dramatically. Not in a way that could be explained.

But enough.
Enough to feel.

Behind them, the clearing remained.
Quiet.
Waiting.
​
And at its center, the ribbons stirred once more—just slightly—as though remembering the dance.

* * * * * * * * * *

The sky is clear this morning.

Not the tentative clearing of April, but a wide, open blue that seems to stretch without hesitation. The woods are alive with birdsong—layer upon layer of it—each voice certain, each note a declaration that the season has turned.

Outside the window, the daffodils have opened.

Not one or two—but many. Small suns gathered in the garden, catching the light and holding it close.

I sit with my coffee, savoring its warmth, its familiar comfort. The window is open, just enough to let in the scent of morning—the earth, the green, the promise of what the day will bring.

And through the cottage, the gentle, fluting notes of Suite Antique move like a quiet blessing.

May has arrived.
Not as a whisper.
But as a presence.

It is a month of expectation, yes—but not the distant kind. Not the kind that waits for something beyond reach. May invites us to recognize that what we have been waiting for has, in many ways, already begun.

Blossoming.
Growth.
Light lingering longer into the evening.

There is a quiet courage in this month—a willingness to open, to trust, to step forward into something fuller. Where April asked us to notice, May asks us to participate.

To say yes.
To the day.
To the moment.
To the life unfolding just beyond our window.

Another sip of coffee.
The warmth settles.
The music continues.

And I am reminded of something simple, something true--
May is proof that change can be beautiful.

So this morning, on this first day of May, I offer a small, quiet intention:
To notice.
To step outside.
To welcome what is already here.

And to trust that what is growing—within and around us—is enough.

“May is the month of expectation, the month of wishes, the month of hope.”  ~Emily Brontë
​
~Wylddane


© 2025 Wylddane Productions, LLC

“And suddenly you know: It’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.”
~Meister Eckhart

This morning arrives softly, as if it knows it carries something just a little bit enchanted.

The Harry Potter Suite drifts through the wee cottage—not loudly, not demanding attention, but like a quiet companion who has come to sit beside me. Outside, the world is turning green again. The oak leaves, just days ago tight fists, are now opening—small, tender hands reaching into the light.

And there they are.
The rhododendrons.

They do not bloom timidly. They never have. They arrive all at once—bold, unapologetic, extravagant in their color, as if spring itself has decided to make a declaration.

I am here. I have returned. Look at me.

There is something almost otherworldly about them. Not just beautiful—though they are certainly that—but mysterious. Their blossoms feel like something out of a story… the kind whispered in old forests, where paths are not always what they seem, and where one might step, unknowingly, from one world into another.
Perhaps that is why the old stories say they guard boundaries.

Between what was and what is.
Between what is and what might yet be.

And I sit here this morning, coffee warm in my hands, wondering if that is what this day is, too.

A boundary.

April loosens its grip. May waits just beyond the threshold.

And here, in this quiet moment, I am standing between them.

The rhododendrons have endured the long winter. Snow, wind, bitter cold—they have known all of it. There were months when nothing about them suggested this--this explosion of life, of color, of presence.

And yet… here they are.
Not merely surviving.
Blooming.
Brilliantly.

It makes me think that perhaps resilience is not just about endurance. It is about timing. About knowing when to hold close, when to rest, when to gather strength… and when, at last, to open.

To risk being seen.
To risk being fully alive.

And yes… there is that other truth.
They are, in their way, dangerous.
Toxic, even.

Beauty and warning, held together in a single bloom.
But perhaps that, too, is part of the lesson.

Not everything that is beautiful is meant to be taken in without awareness. Not everything that dazzles is meant to be consumed. Some things are meant simply to be witnessed, respected, appreciated from a gentle distance.

There is wisdom in that.

The music shifts… a soft swell of strings… and for a moment, the morning feels suspended in something just beyond the ordinary.

And I realize—this is enough.

This moment.
This cup of coffee.
This quiet cottage.
These leaves unfolding.
These blossoms blazing against the green.
There is magic here.
​
Not the kind found in spells or wands… but the quieter kind. The kind that asks only that we notice. That we pause long enough to see what is already being offered.

So this morning, perhaps that is the invitation:
To stand, just for a moment, at the threshold.
To honor what has been.
To welcome what is coming.
To bloom—when it is time—without apology.
And to remember…
that even after the longest winter,
something within us knows exactly how
to open.

~Wylddane

“And suddenly you know: It is time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.”

April 30th arrived not quietly, but with a kind of restless joy—as though the month itself were reluctant to leave.

By late afternoon, the sky above Lone Pine had gathered into a soft, brooding gray. The kind that promised rain, but also something more. The air felt alive—breathing in long, electric sighs between the damp hush of spring and the green-fire promise of summer.

Inside Bean & Birch, the windows fogged gently from the warmth within. Maren stood behind the counter, polishing a mug that didn’t need polishing, while Lucy leaned against the pastry case, watching the sky with narrowed eyes.

“It’s going to do something,” Lucy said.
“It always does,” Maren replied, smiling.

At the long table, the coffee gang had gathered—Erica and Tom, Toby, Martha—and near the door sat Ethan, with Bear stretched at his feet, Isabel tucked comfortably in her front pack, her amber eyes blinking slowly at the room. Perched above the coat rack, Ragnhilde watched everything with that keen, knowing intelligence of hers.

“Storm’s coming,” Ethan said quietly.
“Good,” Martha replied. “April shouldn’t go out without a little drama.”

As if on cue, the first drops came—not tentative, but bold. A sudden, drumming rain that swept across the street and rattled the windows like an eager visitor.

And then—just as quickly—it passed.
The clouds broke open.
Sunlight poured through.

“Now,” Maren said, setting the mug down. “That’s worth stepping outside for.”

They spilled out onto the street, laughing, blinking into the sudden brilliance. The world had changed in an instant. The pavement shimmered. The air carried that deep, intoxicating scent of wet earth—the breath of roots and soil and waking things.

The maples along the road had unfurled their leaves into a soft, luminous green—not loud, not yet, but delicate…like lace stitched by light itself.

“Listen,” Erica whispered.
At first, there was only the hush after rain.
Then--
A single robin.
Then another.
Then a chorus.

And above it all, the sky—still half-streaked with retreating clouds—held something stranger still.

A band of light—not quite a rainbow, not quite mist—hung low over Stillwater Gleam, shimmering faintly, as though the lake itself were exhaling color.

“What do you suppose that is?” Tom asked.
Ragnhilde gave a soft, low croak, shifting her wings.
“It’s April,” Ethan said. “Letting go.”

At that moment, Mabel came bounding down the path from the lakeshore, her fur damp, her eyes bright with purpose. She circled the group once, twice, then stopped—facing the lake.

Bear rose.
Isabel leaned forward in her pack.
All of them, in some quiet, instinctive way, turned to look.

The surface of Stillwater Gleam lay utterly calm—mirror-still—except for one small disturbance.
A ripple.
Then another.
And just for a moment—no more than a breath—the water seemed to glow.
Not brightly. Not dramatically.
But softly.
As though something beneath the surface had stirred…had awakened…and then settled again.

No one spoke.
No one needed to.

The light in the sky faded. The robin’s song carried on. The scent of rain lingered.

“May’s coming,” Lucy said at last.
Maren slipped her arm through hers. “I think it already has.”

They stood there a while longer—friends, animals, wings, and quiet wonder—held in that thin, shimmering space between what had been…
and what was just beginning.

* * * * * * * * * *

This morning, the light arrives early.

It feels as though only yesterday I would sit here, coffee in hand, gazing out into darkness—waiting for the day to begin. And now…here it is before me. A sky of soft blue. A sunrise rich and golden, spilling gently across the northwoods.

The trees have begun their quiet transformation. What only days ago were bare branches now wear a delicate lace of green—so tender, so new, it almost feels like a secret.

Inside, the music of Maurice Ravel drifts softly--Pavane for a Dead Princess—a piece that always feels like both remembrance and awakening at once. It holds something of April in it, I think…a gentle farewell, a bow of the head, before stepping forward.

I sip my coffee—yes, that first sip that somehow always feels necessary to awaken not just the body, but the soul—and I think of the turning of things.

Of seasons.
Of days.
Of life itself.

William Wordsworth once wrote of the sweetness of visiting the woods when the warm sun returns…when the earth, though once stricken by winter, begins again to thrive.

And that is the quiet miracle before us.

Not just in April.
Not just in May.
But in every beginning.

We are always standing at such a threshold—whether we recognize it or not.

Every morning is, in its own way, an April 30th.

A moment poised between what has been and what may yet be.

We carry with us the remnants of winter—of worry, of weariness, of doubt—but also the unmistakable stirrings of something new.

Hope.
Possibility.
A soft green beginning.

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”
It is not simply a clever line—it is a truth written into the very fabric of the world around us.

So today—this morning—this quiet, luminous moment…
Let us release what no longer serves us.
Let us step, gently but surely, into what calls us forward.
Let us listen for the robin’s song.
Let us notice the light.
Let us begin again.
​
Another sip of coffee…
A breath.
And there it is—the sound of a robin, clear and bright.
And so…
this day begins.

~Wylddane



​

“Between what is seen and what is felt,
there lies a quiet mirror--
and in its stillness,
we remember who we are.”

At Bean & Birch, the morning had begun the way it often did—quiet, with the soft murmur of conversation and the gentle clink of mugs. Outside, Lone Pine still wore the gray hush of early spring, that in-between season where winter lingered like a reluctant guest.

Erica sat near the window, her hands wrapped around her coffee, though she had yet to take a sip. She was watching the light.

“Something’s got you,” Maren said, setting a warm pastry beside her without asking. She had a way of knowing.

Erica smiled faintly. “The river.”

Tom looked up from his paper. “Stillwater Gleam?”

“No,” Erica said, shaking her head. “Further down. St. Croix. Osceola Landing. Years ago.” She paused, as if listening inward. Then she continued.

The air that morning had not simply warmed—it had awakened.

Erica had stood at the riverbank, boots pressed into damp earth, the scent of thaw rising all around her. The trees leaned over the water like old companions, their branches newly dressed in that impossible, tender green—so soft it almost glowed.

And then she saw it.
The river was not reflecting the world.
It was remembering it.

The water held the trees, yes—but deeper, richer somehow. The greens were more alive below than above, as though the river carried a memory of spring more perfect than the one unfolding in the air.

A breeze moved through, and the branches trembled. Leaves—tiny, newborn—drifted down.

Above, they fell.
Below, they became.

In the water, each leaf shimmered, stretching into strokes of light, like brushstrokes in a painting not yet finished. A beetle skimmed the surface, and for a moment it looked as though it traveled through a forest of liquid emerald, a voyager in a world just beneath this one.

Erica had crouched then, drawn closer, as though nearing a threshold.

The boundary blurred.
Sky and water.
Root and reflection.
Present and something… older.

She remembered whispering, though she hadn’t meant to:
“What are you showing me?”

The river did not answer in words.
But it deepened.
And in that depth, Erica felt something unmistakable—not seen, not heard, but known:
That the world we look at is only half of what is.
And the rest…
The rest waits quietly beneath the surface, reflecting not just what is, but what we carry within.

Back at Bean & Birch, no one spoke for a moment.

Even the usual morning chatter seemed to soften, as if the story itself had settled into the room like a hush.
Lucy finally broke the silence. “So what did you see… in it? In the reflection?”

Erica looked down at her coffee, now catching the window light.

“A calmer version of everything,” she said. “Clearer. Kinder.” She glanced up. “Maybe… what things are meant to be. Or what they could be, if we let them.”

Martha nodded slowly. “A remembering,” she said. “Not just the river.”

Erica smiled. “Exactly.”

Outside, a faint breeze stirred the budding trees.

And for just a moment, the world seemed to hold both what was—and what might yet be.

* * * * * * * * * *

This morning arrives softly.

Clouds linger low, a quiet gray pressing gently against the windows of the wee cottage. The thermometer reads 38 degrees, and the world feels suspended—neither winter nor fully spring, but something tenderly becoming.

And then…
Just for a moment…
The clouds part.

Light spills through—not boldly, not loudly—but with a kind of reverence. The lacy green treetops, only just awakened, catch that light and transform. What was soft green becomes peach and gold, as though touched by a painter’s brush mid-breath.

In that fleeting instant, time pauses.

Inside, Hymn (Karl Jenkins composition) rises gently through the cottage, its notes of grace and quiet majesty filling the air. The music and the light meet—and something within responds.

Breath stills.
Not from effort…
…but from awe.

A sip of coffee follows—warm, grounding, real—and the moment settles into something deeper.
A knowing.

There is a quiet truth in mornings like this:
That reflection is not merely looking back…
but looking within.
Like the river in Erica’s story, life is a mirror.
What we see—out there in the world—is often a reflection of what lives within us.
When we pause… truly pause… we begin to notice this.
The way light breaks through clouds.
The way music touches something unnamed.
The way a simple cup of coffee becomes an anchor to the present moment.
These are not small things.
They are invitations.

In many traditions, mirrors are seen as portals—not just reflecting the face we show the world, but the deeper self we sometimes forget to see.

And perhaps that is what reflection offers us:
A gentle turning inward.
A quiet awakening.
As Carl Jung once wrote:
“Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakens.”

So today…
Let this day—this cloudy, chilly, quietly luminous day—be one of gentle awareness.
Notice the small breaks in the clouds.
The fleeting gold in the trees.
The music that finds you.
The warmth in your hands as you hold your coffee.

And perhaps, in these moments, you will glimpse something more:
Not just the world as it is…
…but the world as it lives within you.
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And in that reflection, may you find peace.
May you find gratitude.
May you find yourself.

~Wylddane



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“Where there is love, there is life.”  ~Mahatma Gandhi

There are some mornings that do not rush in with urgency, but instead arrive like a soft breath upon the world. This is one of them.

I sit here with my mug—my necessary, almost sacred, cup of coffee warming my hands—and feel that gentle awakening that comes not just from caffeine, but from noticing. From seeing. Outside, the northwoods are shifting. Just days ago, the trees stood bare and waiting, their branches etched like charcoal against the sky. And now…now they are touched with the faintest green, like lace woven by some patient, unseen hand.

Spring does not shout its arrival. It whispers.

And in that whisper, I find myself thinking of this rose.

A bloom from a dear friend’s garden, captured years ago, yet somehow more alive now than ever. It holds within it something beyond its petals—something luminous, something tender. When I look at it, I do not merely see a flower. I feel love. I feel compassion. I feel the quiet, enduring truth that beauty—real beauty—is something we give to one another.

Rumi’s words drift into this moment as naturally as the morning light:

“Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder. Help someone’s soul heal. Walk out of your house like a shepherd.”

What a simple, extraordinary invitation.

To be a lamp—offering light where there is darkness.
To be a lifeboat—steady and present when the waters grow rough.
To be a ladder—helping another rise, even if only by a step.

And perhaps, like this rose, we are not asked to do these things in grand, sweeping gestures. Perhaps we are meant to do them quietly, naturally—by simply being who we are at our best. By choosing kindness when indifference would be easier. By offering warmth when the world feels cold. By listening. By caring.

Outside, the morning deepens. Patricia Barber’s “The Girl from Ipanema” drifts through the room, her voice like silk, like memory, like a soft companion to the light filtering through the windows. The coffee is just right now—no longer scalding, not yet cool. The kind of perfect that only lasts a moment…unless we notice it.

And so this day begins.

Not with a demand, but with a gentle question:

How will we bloom today?
How will we be the lamp, the lifeboat, the ladder…for someone, somewhere?

The rose does not strive to be beautiful. It simply is.
And in that being, it offers everything.
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May we do the same.

Wylddane