"Black eyed Susan" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“There is magic in the morning quiet, where the soul remembers its roots and the heart opens like a flower to the sun.” ~Wylddane
This morning, the world breathed a little easier.
After a stretch of heat and humidity that clung to the skin and weighted the spirit, the air has turned cool and dry again—welcoming. And so I found myself, once more, stepping outside in the deep hush before dawn, mug of coffee in hand, returning to my garden ritual. The sky was still wrapped in night, the stars retreating, and the horizon not yet whispering its promise of light.
The garden greeted me like an old friend. The burble of the fountain was the overture to a soft symphony: birdcalls rising here and there like strings warming up in a quiet concert hall. The word that floated into my consciousness, as gently as the morning breeze, was tranquility. Over and over, like a mantra echoing from soul to soul--tranquility.
My cotton-tailed companion was already there, quietly nibbling on dew-kissed greens. The neighbor’s tuxedo cat padded over with silent feet and curious eyes, acknowledging me with a flick of her tail before settling in under a shrub. I walked the familiar path, and my eyes caught the golden-bright bloom of a Black-eyed Susan—summer’s sunburst anchored in the green.
Late summer has its own voice, its own tempo. Coneflowers stand proud, and the Black-eyed Susans sing their song of resilience and cheer. This flower in particular holds a place in my heart, because it belonged—spiritually at least—to my mother’s oldest sister, my aunt. It was her favorite. And when I see it blooming now, I smile—remembering her laughter, the warm way she and my uncle welcomed me during my college days.
On Saturdays, I’d often drive my car from campus to their home, laundry basket in the back seat, under the pretense of doing my wash. But truthfully, I came for the comfort. For the smell of fresh coffee, the humble spread of cheese and crackers and cookies, and the ease of conversation. They never made me feel like a visitor. I was simply part of the rhythm of their day, part of the life in their kitchen. I didn't know it then, but I was gathering golden threads that would one day be stitched into the fabric of my soul.
This morning, seeing that Black-eyed Susan, I felt them both near. Felt the echo of their kindness and steady love. It reminded me that the past never truly leaves us; it blooms again and again in the moments we least expect—moments like this one, in a quiet garden at the edge of dawn.
Now, the horizon lightens. A bird trills a louder note. The day begins. And I carry into it not just memories, but something more: a sense of wonder. Of magic. Of faith—not the kind taught in books or pews, but the kind you feel in your chest when a flower blooms just for you… or when a cat shows up for company… or when your heart, quite suddenly, remembers what it is to feel whole.
May this day be a day of inspiration.
May it be a day of magic.
May it be a day of hope.
~Wylddane
This morning, the world breathed a little easier.
After a stretch of heat and humidity that clung to the skin and weighted the spirit, the air has turned cool and dry again—welcoming. And so I found myself, once more, stepping outside in the deep hush before dawn, mug of coffee in hand, returning to my garden ritual. The sky was still wrapped in night, the stars retreating, and the horizon not yet whispering its promise of light.
The garden greeted me like an old friend. The burble of the fountain was the overture to a soft symphony: birdcalls rising here and there like strings warming up in a quiet concert hall. The word that floated into my consciousness, as gently as the morning breeze, was tranquility. Over and over, like a mantra echoing from soul to soul--tranquility.
My cotton-tailed companion was already there, quietly nibbling on dew-kissed greens. The neighbor’s tuxedo cat padded over with silent feet and curious eyes, acknowledging me with a flick of her tail before settling in under a shrub. I walked the familiar path, and my eyes caught the golden-bright bloom of a Black-eyed Susan—summer’s sunburst anchored in the green.
Late summer has its own voice, its own tempo. Coneflowers stand proud, and the Black-eyed Susans sing their song of resilience and cheer. This flower in particular holds a place in my heart, because it belonged—spiritually at least—to my mother’s oldest sister, my aunt. It was her favorite. And when I see it blooming now, I smile—remembering her laughter, the warm way she and my uncle welcomed me during my college days.
On Saturdays, I’d often drive my car from campus to their home, laundry basket in the back seat, under the pretense of doing my wash. But truthfully, I came for the comfort. For the smell of fresh coffee, the humble spread of cheese and crackers and cookies, and the ease of conversation. They never made me feel like a visitor. I was simply part of the rhythm of their day, part of the life in their kitchen. I didn't know it then, but I was gathering golden threads that would one day be stitched into the fabric of my soul.
This morning, seeing that Black-eyed Susan, I felt them both near. Felt the echo of their kindness and steady love. It reminded me that the past never truly leaves us; it blooms again and again in the moments we least expect—moments like this one, in a quiet garden at the edge of dawn.
Now, the horizon lightens. A bird trills a louder note. The day begins. And I carry into it not just memories, but something more: a sense of wonder. Of magic. Of faith—not the kind taught in books or pews, but the kind you feel in your chest when a flower blooms just for you… or when a cat shows up for company… or when your heart, quite suddenly, remembers what it is to feel whole.
May this day be a day of inspiration.
May it be a day of magic.
May it be a day of hope.
~Wylddane
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