“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.
​
And in that reflection, may you find peace.
May you find gratitude.
May you find yourself.

~Wylddane



​

“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.
​
May we do the same.

Wylddane

“Even the smallest flower knows when it is time to bloom.”  ~Northwoods Proverb

The sun hung low over Stillwater Gleam, amber and heavy, bleeding its last light across a meadow still gripped by winter’s reluctant hand.

Liam walked slowly along the edge of the field, his boots crunching through the frost-nipped grass. At his side, Mabel moved with quiet purpose, her black-and-white coat catching the dimming light, her breath rising in soft clouds.

“Not quite spring,” Liam murmured.

Mabel paused.

Then, as if hearing something beyond sound, she turned her head sharply toward the center of the meadow.
There—where the land dipped just slightly—was a circle.

Golden crocuses.
Not scattered. Not wild.

But arranged—perfectly, deliberately—as though the earth itself had drawn a quiet boundary between worlds.

They glowed.
Not brightly, not boldly—but with a warmth that did not belong to the cold.
Mabel gave a low, uncertain whine.

“I see them,” Liam whispered.
He stepped closer.
The air shifted.
The wind stilled—not gradually, but completely—as though someone had closed a door on the world.
The silence deepened.
Not empty.
Waiting.

Liam knelt at the edge of the circle. His breath ghosted into the stillness as he reached out and brushed the silk of a single petal.
The world did not break.
It opened.
The scent of damp cedar and ancient rain filled his lungs. The cold vanished, replaced by a living warmth—thick, green, and humming with something older than memory.
Before him, the crocus did not bend.
It became.
A golden archway, unfolding petal by petal into a doorway of light.
Mabel barked once—sharp, urgent.
Liam hesitated.
Then stepped through.

The Ancient Garden breathed.
Trees of silver and jade rose like cathedral columns, their leaves whispering in tones too deep to hear, but impossible not to feel. Water moved everywhere—softly—filling basins of moss and stone with liquid light that shimmered like captured moonbeams.

Mabel stood close against Liam’s leg now, her body taut, alert—but she did not retreat.
“She came with me,” Liam whispered, surprised.

Of course she had.
Some thresholds are not meant to be crossed alone.

At the center of the garden stood a pedestal of white stone, veined with gold like lightning frozen in stillness.
Upon it rested a scroll.
No dust. No decay.
Waiting.
Liam stepped forward, his heartbeat suddenly loud—no, not his heartbeat.
A ticking.
Not mechanical.
Alive.
Time, made audible.
He glanced back.
The golden arch flickered.
The meadow beyond was dimming. Evening had begun its slow claim.
Mabel nudged his hand.
Choose.
Liam reached for the scroll.
As the parchment unfurled, the garden stirred.
Light gathered in the shadows, shaping itself into figures—not ghosts, but something gentler. Echoes. Presences. Lives remembered not in sorrow, but in wholeness.

A couple walking hand in hand.
A man laughing beside a fire.
A woman holding a child close, her song trembling in the air like light.

Mabel moved among them, calm now, her tail low but steady—as though she recognized what Liam was only beginning to understand.

“These are… stories,” Liam whispered.
Not written.
Lived.
Preserved.

The scroll shimmered beneath his touch, the ink like liquid starlight waiting for a hand brave enough to continue the telling.

The ticking quickened.
The archway narrowed.
Mabel barked once—sharp, insistent.
Liam grabbed the reed pen.
And wrote.

He wrote of the warmth of the Bean & Birch on a cold morning.
Of laughter shared over coffee.
Of friendships that asked for nothing but presence.
Of quiet loyalty—the kind that walks beside you without question.
He wrote of Mabel.
He wrote of love—not as something distant or grand, but as something woven into the smallest, most ordinary moments.

As the ink touched the scroll, the garden changed.

The figures brightened.
Turned.
Saw him.
Not as a stranger.
As one of them.
The ticking surged.
The archway trembled.
Closing.
“Time to go,” Liam said softly.
Mabel was already moving.
They ran.
Light flickered.
The golden petals began to fold.
At the last possible instant, Liam dove through--

Cold.
Sharp.
Real.

He landed hard against the frost, the breath knocked from his chest.
Mabel stood over him, barking once, then again—until he laughed.

“I’m here,” he said.
The meadow was silent again.

The circle of crocuses remained—but now they were closed, small, unremarkable, holding their secret tightly beneath the gathering night.

Liam looked at his hand.
There, on his fingertip, was a single smear of iridescent gold.
Proof.
Or perhaps…
Reminder.
He sat back, the stars beginning to gather overhead, ancient and patient.
Mabel curled beside him.
The cold no longer felt quite so cold.
Because now he knew--
The garden was not somewhere else.
It was carried.
In every kindness.
Every shared moment.
Every quiet, enduring act of love.
He rested his hand gently against Mabel’s head.
And together, beneath the unfolding night, they kept watch--
At the edge of where worlds meet.

* * * * * * * * * *

My, but the coffee tastes good this morning.

It seems like only yesterday the wee cottage was sealed tight against winter—windows frosted, doors closed, the world held at bay. And now… this morning.

The doors are open.
Sunlight slips in like an old friend who knows the way.
The fountain burbles softly, as if remembering a song it nearly forgot.
And the birds—oh, the birds—are positively insistent that this day be noticed.

Even Haddaway's "What Is Love" has found its way into the morning, its rhythm weaving through the air, tapping at my feet, asking—no, insisting—that I move a little, smile a little, live a little.

Is it the music?
Or the coffee?
A fine question.
Perhaps neither.
Or perhaps both.

Because mornings like this are not made of one thing.
They are made of awakening.

And somewhere out there—perhaps at the edge of a meadow, perhaps just beyond our noticing—the crocuses are preparing to bloom.
Small.
Fragile.
And yet unstoppable.
They push through frost.
Through snow.
Through doubt.
They do not ask if the season is ready.
They simply become.

And in doing so, they remind us:
That hope does not wait for perfect conditions.
That joy often begins quietly.
That new beginnings rarely arrive with fanfare—but instead with the soft unfolding of something golden beneath the surface.

Crocuses have long been symbols of rebirth, of cheerfulness, of resilience.
Of love.
Of friendship.
Of that gentle but persistent truth—that even after the longest winter, something within us still knows how to bloom.

And so this day begins.
Like all days.
A beginning.
A chance to step forward, perhaps a bit uncertain, perhaps a bit weary—but still willing.
Still open.
Still capable of wonder.
And maybe—just maybe—if we are paying attention…
We might glimpse a bit of that hidden garden.
Not somewhere far away.
But right here.
In the warmth of a cup of coffee.
In the rhythm of a song.
In the presence of those who walk beside us.

~Wylddane

“The quieter you become, the more you are able to hear.”  ~Attributed to Zen teaching

​O quiet river, keeper of the sky,
You lie beneath the latticework of trees
As though the earth itself had learned to sigh
And rest in its own breath with gentle ease.

No wind disturbs your glass of silver-blue,
No hurried thought comes rippling through your frame;
The world, untroubled, gathers into you
And finds within your depths a softened name.

The branches bend, yet do not break your grace--
They enter you as whispers, not as weight;
And clouds drift slowly through your mirrored face,
As if both time and sky have learned to wait.

You are no idle mirror fixed in place,
But living glass that never stays the same;
Each passing moment leaves a fleeting trace,
Yet none remain—and none can lay a claim.

O stillness, how you gather what is true:
Not by possession, but by letting be.
For only when the waters quiet through
Can they reveal both world—and self—to see.

The sages knew—old voices carried far--
That restless hearts reflect a fractured light;
But calm, like you, reveals us as we are,
Whole as the moon upon a windless night.

And so I sit, with morning in my hand,
A simple mug of coffee, warm and near,
While sunlight softly wakes this wooded land
And fills the quiet spaces, bright and clear.

Within this wee cottage, day begins--
And through the air, as though from some soft glass,
Through the Looking Glass gently spins,
A melody like thoughts that drift and pass.

The river holds the sky. The sky, the trees.
The trees, the light. The light, this quiet hour.
And somewhere in that stillness, I find peace--
Not as a thing to grasp, but as a flower.
​
And so, this day begins.

~Wylddane

(This is dedicated to my dear friend Gail)

​There are photographs we take to remember a place…
and then there are photographs that remember a feeling.
This rose has lived quietly in my collection for years--
ten, perhaps fifteen--
its name long forgotten,
its season blurred into the soft passing of time.
And yet…
the moment I look at it, I am there again.
Not just in a garden,
but in a friendship.

It is easy to say that yellow roses symbolize friendship and joy.
We’ve all heard that.
But standing in a friend’s garden--
camera in hand, sunlight warming the day--
you begin to understand something deeper.
This bloom did not grow by accident.
It was tended.
Watered.
Protected through storms and seasons.
Just like friendship.

There is a quiet magic in that.
A rose does not try to be anything other than itself.
It does not compare itself to the sunflower or the lily.
It simply opens--
petal by petal--
into the fullness of what it was meant to be.
And perhaps that is what our dearest friendships do for us.
They allow us to bloom as we are.

Looking at this rose now, I realize it is more than a photograph.
It is a living memory.
A breathing moment.
A small, golden reminder that somewhere along the way,
life gave me the gift of a friend…
and the grace to recognize it.

~Wylddane

“Between what is seen and unseen,
there is a moment of quiet knowing.
Enter gently.”

​The fog came in the night.
Not rising, as it should have, from the cold breath of Stillwater Gleam…
but rolling in—low and deliberate—like something that had chosen its path.
Later, Maren would say it felt like a veil.
Not of weather—but of presence.

Liam woke before dawn, though he could not say why.
The world beyond the wee cottage window had vanished.
Not dimmed. Not softened.

Erased.

He stepped outside, Mabel at his side, her black-and-white form swallowed almost instantly by the pale white.

Even the familiar crunch of gravel beneath his boots felt muted, as though the sound had been wrapped in wool.

The fog smelled…wrong.
Not the clean, mineral breath of lake mist.
This carried something older.
Cold water.
Charred wood.
And something else—faint, but unmistakable--
The scent of something sacred…or forgotten.

By the time Liam reached the road into Lone Pine, he could no longer see his own boots.
The town was silent.

No engines.
No doors opening.
No morning greetings drifting across porches.
Even the birds—those tireless heralds of dawn—were absent.

Mabel pressed close now, her usual confidence replaced by a low, uncertain whine.
And then--
A sound.
Not near.
Not far.

A creaking…rhythmic…almost musical groan.
Wood under strain.
Rope pulled taut.

Bean & Birch appeared not as a building, but as a suggestion—a darker shape in the white.
Inside, the fog had not entered, but it pressed hard against the windows, turning them into pale, glowing walls.

The entire coffee gang was there.

Maren stood behind the counter, though she looked less like a barista and more like a keeper of something older.

Lucy clutched a mug she had not sipped.

Erica and Tom sat close together. Toby was unusually quiet. Sam stood near the door, listening.
“You hear it too,” Liam said.
Maren nodded.
“It isn’t just sound,” she said softly. “It’s memory.”

On the counter lay a scattering of old papers—maps, ledger pages, brittle with age.
Liam recognized them immediately.
The Lone Pine archives.
“I didn’t bring them,” Maren said before he could ask. “They were…waiting.”
She turned one of the pages.
The ink was faded, but the date was clear.
April 21st. One hundred years ago.

Sam spoke then, his voice low.

“My grandfather used to say there are mornings when the world thins,” he said. “When what was…presses close to what is.”

Maren nodded again.

“In some traditions,” she said quietly, “fog is a bridge. Between worlds. Between moments.”
Her eyes drifted toward the windows.
“Between truth… and what we tried to forget.”

The story unfolded not in words—but in fragments.
A boat expected.
A storm rising too fast.
Fires placed along the shore…
And then—moved.
To the rocks.
Where the lake would take what it was given.

By midday, the fog deepened.
It no longer concealed.
It revealed.

Figures began to move through the streets—slow, uncertain shapes, as though walking through water.
Liam saw one pass directly through the café window.
A man.
Or what had once been a man.
His clothes clung to him, heavy and dark. His face…not angry.
Searching.
Always searching.

Mabel let out a soft, broken bark.

And then--
Voices.
Layered upon one another.
Shouted warnings.
Cries swallowed by wind.
The crackle of flame.
And beneath it all…laughter.
Short. Nervous. Guilty.

Maren’s hands trembled as she closed the final page.

“In the old stories,” she said, “there are spirits of mist…keepers of thresholds. They come when something has been left unfinished.”
She looked at Liam.
“This fog remembers.”

By late afternoon, the figures had gathered in the square.
Dozens of them.
Not threatening.
Waiting.
Facing the old bell tower.
As if they had come—not for vengeance--
but for acknowledgment.

The climb to the bell tower felt longer than it should have.
Each step echoed—not just in wood and stone—but in something deeper.
As if time itself were listening.
At the top, Maren placed her hand on the rope.
For a moment, she hesitated.
Then she spoke—not loudly, but clearly:
“We remember.”
And she pulled.

The bell rang.
A single, clear note.
Then again.
And again.
With each toll, the fog shifted—not recoiling, but loosening—like a breath finally released.
Below, the figures began to fade.
Not vanishing.
Releasing.
As if seen.
As if named.

At dawn, the sun returned.
The fog was gone.
Stillwater Gleam lay quiet, its surface smooth and unreadable.
But Lone Pine was no longer the same.
Nor should it be.

Later, at Bean & Birch, the coffee tasted richer.
Or perhaps more honest.
Liam sat near the window, Mabel resting quietly at his side.
Outside, the world had returned.
But something had been opened.
Or perhaps…
something had finally been allowed to close.

* * * * * * * * * *

​For the past two mornings, the world arrived wrapped in fog.
Not the light, drifting kind—but the kind that settles in…
quietly, completely…as though it has something to say.
This morning, the fog has given way to rain.
A gentle rain tapping against the windows of the wee cottage,
while a cup of coffee warms my hands.
Karl Jenkins’ Hymn is playing—its melodies rising and falling
like something just beyond language.
And still…
those foggy mornings linger.

Fog has always carried stories.
In ancient traditions, it is a veil—a boundary between worlds.
A place where what is known softens,
and what is hidden draws near.

Some believed it marked moments of awakening.

Others, a passage between life and what lies beyond.

In poetry, it has often signaled endings--
or the quiet approach of something final.
And in some cultures, it is sacred.
A space where time loosens.
Where memory…moves.

There are stories, too, of those who stepped into fog
and were never seen again.
​
The writer Ambrose Bierce comes to mind--
a man who wrote of strange disappearances,
and then, one day, became one himself.
Did he simply vanish into history?
Or did he step into something…unseen?

Perhaps we don’t need to answer such questions.
Perhaps it is enough to feel them.
Because fog does something curious to us.
It slows us.
It hushes the world.
It invites us inward.
And maybe—just maybe--
it reminds us that not everything is meant to be fully explained.

I take another sip of coffee.
The rain has stopped.
Somewhere beyond the window,
a robin begins to sing.
And just like that--
the world returns.
Not diminished…
but deepened.

~Wylddane

“The earth has music for those who listen.”  ~William Shakespeare


The air still held the sharp, metallic tang of winter, but the mud beneath Ethan’s boots had softened into something alive—something breathing. Each step gave slightly, as though the earth itself were waking from a long, necessary sleep.

At his side, Bear moved with quiet purpose, his silver-gray coat catching the last light of dusk, his breath visible in faint, fading ghosts. Tucked warmly against Ethan’s chest, Isabel peeked out from the fold of his jacket, her orange-and-white fur catching glimmers of amber light. Above them, gliding from branch to branch, Ragnhilde watched with the keen patience of something that understood both winter and what came after.

They had walked this path all winter long—the narrow trail that curved past the old fence line and down into the low marsh at the edge of Stillwater Gleam. For months, it had been a place of silence. A sacred kind of silence, yes—but heavy, like a held breath that had lasted too long.

Tonight felt different.

Ethan paused at the edge of the hollow where the silver maples stood knee-deep in tea-colored water, their trunks reflected in a trembling mirror of sky and shadow. The light was thinning now, dusk settling gently across the marsh.

And then--
A single, piercing peep.
It cut through the quiet like a spark.
Bear’s ears lifted.
Isabel stilled.
Ragnhilde shifted her wings once, then went utterly motionless.

Another peep answered from deeper in the reeds. Then another. And another—until the air itself seemed to fracture and bloom into sound.

Within seconds, the marsh was no longer silent. It was alive—vibrating, ringing, singing with a thousand tiny voices rising in urgent, jubilant chorus.
​
The spring peepers had returned.

Ethan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for months.
“They’re back,” he whispered.

The sound grew—layer upon layer, until it filled every space between earth and sky. It wasn’t noise. It was music. High-pitched and bright, like sleigh bells scattered across the water. Like silver pipes calling something ancient and necessary back into being.

Bear stepped forward, paws sinking slightly into the soft earth, his gaze sweeping the marsh as though searching for the singers. But, as always, they remained hidden—small as thumbnails, tucked among reeds and mud, their camouflage perfect, their presence undeniable.

Isabel gave a soft, questioning chirr, as if asking why something so loud could remain unseen.

Ethan smiled.

“They’re like hope,” he said softly. “You don’t always see it… but you know when it’s there.”

Ragnhilde let out a low, thoughtful croak, as if in agreement.

The chorus surged again, louder now, a wild and joyful insistence. Not a song about spring—but a declaration of it. A summoning. A command to the frozen earth:

Wake.

The water in the marsh shimmered with the sound, reflecting the first stars appearing overhead. For a moment—just a moment—it felt as though they were standing between two skies: one above, one below, both alive with quiet light and vibrant song.

Ethan leaned against the old fence post, its wood worn smooth by decades of seasons. He closed his eyes and let the sound wash through him.

Winter was not gone—not entirely. There would still be cold mornings, perhaps even a stray snowfall or two. But this…this was the turning.
​
The heart of the world had begun to beat again.
Behind them, along the distant path, lantern light flickered softly.
Voices followed—familiar, warm.
Maren’s gentle laugh.
Sam’s steady tone.
Erica and Tom speaking in low conversation.
The quiet cadence of friends who had also felt the shift and come to witness it.
The Bean & Birch circle, drawn not by invitation—but by instinct.
They gathered beside Ethan in the growing dark, saying little at first. There are moments, after all, that do not ask for words.

Together, they stood at the edge of the marsh, listening.

And the peepers sang on—tiny, unseen, unstoppable—announcing to anyone who would pause long enough to hear:

Begin again.

* * * * * * * * * *

This morning, the sunlight arrives gently—gold laid across the tops of the trees, touching each branch as if in greeting.
​
My mug of coffee steams beside me, its warmth rising in quiet invitation. I take a sip, and for a moment, I am no longer here—I am back at the open French door from last night.

The air had been soft. The kind of softness that only comes after winter has loosened its grip.

Inside, the stereo played—Gibbs’ Dusk—a piece already filled with longing and gentle beauty. But beyond it…beneath it…woven through it…
…the peepers.
That chorus.

At first, I almost missed them. A background note. A subtle shimmer beneath the music.
But then I stepped closer to the open door.
And listened.
Really listened.

And there it was—the unmistakable, high-pitched music of spring peepers (Pseudacris crucifer), tiny creatures no larger than a thumbnail, hidden in the marsh and reeds, yet filling the night with sound so vast it seems impossible.

They are often heard, seldom seen. Approach them, and they fall silent—like secrets waiting for stillness. Stay patient, and they return, their chorus rising again like breath.

There is something quietly miraculous in that.
How often in life does beauty live just beyond our rushing?
How often do we pass by entire symphonies because we have not yet paused long enough to hear them?

There is even a name for it, I’ve read--pond addiction syndrome—that irresistible pull to stop at the edge of wetlands, to listen, to linger, to become part of something ancient and alive.

Perhaps it is not an addiction at all.
Perhaps it is remembrance.
Because those peepers are more than frogs calling in the night. They are heralds. A living threshold. A reminder that even after long silence—after cold, after stillness, after seasons that seem they may never end--
something within the world is always preparing to begin again.
And so this morning, I sit with my coffee.
I take another sip.
I gaze out the window as sunlight kisses the tops of the trees.

And I think of Ethan, of Bear, of Isabel tucked warmly close, of Ragnhilde watching from above…of friends gathering quietly at the edge of something beautiful.

And I wonder--
What music is already playing in our lives, waiting for us to hear it?
What quiet chorus is calling us back to ourselves?
Perhaps today is not meant to be rushed.
Perhaps today is meant to be listened to.
Slowly.
Gently.
With wonder.
And so begins another day.

~Wylddane

​I do not know your name,
and yet
you feel familiar--

as though somewhere
in the quiet corridors of memory
I have stood beside you before,
listening.

You move as all rivers do--
not in haste,
not in hesitation,
but in a knowing.

A patient unfolding.

You carry with you
the stories of mountains worn smooth,
of rains long vanished,
of springs that whispered you into being.

And still--
you do not cling to what you have been.

You go on.

Through branch and shadow,
through light caught in trembling leaves,
you slip between moments
as easily as breath.

And I, standing here,
am reminded--

that to touch you
is to touch time itself:

the past passing through my fingers,
the future arriving without announcement,
the present--
only ever here
for the briefest shimmer.

You do not force your way forward.
You do not resist the bend.

You simply continue.

And perhaps that is your quiet magic--

not that you carve through stone,
but that you do so
by being exactly what you are:

persistent,
yielding,
alive.
​
So I stand a little longer,
listening to your voice--
and in it,
I hear something of my own heart
​
learning,
at last,
to flow.

~Wylddane