"April Morning River Reflections" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“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.
And in that reflection, may you find peace.
May you find gratitude.
May you find yourself.
~Wylddane
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.
And in that reflection, may you find peace.
May you find gratitude.
May you find yourself.
~Wylddane
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