"Rhododendron Mornings" (Image & Text Copyright 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
~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
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