“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

“Memory is not a place we leave behind. It is a living path—an invitation to revisit the sacred and carry it forward.”  ~Wylddane

There’s a path I still walk often—though now it’s more with my heart than my feet. Calera Creek, just before it slips into the waiting arms of the Pacific at Rockaway Beach, remains etched into my soul. I can still hear the soft hush of water weaving its way through the restored wetlands, the rhythmic crunch of my footsteps on gravel, the gentle greeting of a fellow traveler. Birdsong danced through the air—red-winged blackbirds, herons, even the rare echo of a California least tern overhead. The creek sang a song older than memory, and I listened with my whole being.

To walk there was to become part of something greater. I was not separate from nature—I was nature. The frogs whispered beneath the reeds, the cormorants nested along the quarry cliffs like guardians, and now and then, I’d pause and wonder if I was being quietly observed by a San Francisco garter snake or a red-legged frog. These wild neighbors, some endangered and rarely seen, were still kin—flickering threads in the great woven tapestry of Earth’s breath.

And though I now sit at my wee cottage in the northwoods, mug of coffee cradled in hand, I find myself walking there once more—barely needing to close my eyes. The inspiration I once found on that trail continues to flow through me like the creek itself. Memory is not a place we leave behind. It is a living path—an invitation to revisit the sacred and carry it forward.

So if I seem to wander down Memory Lane a bit more often these days, it is only because there is beauty there...and wisdom…and a reminder that we are always part of the wonder. Always.

And as this morning unfolds in birdsong and possibility, I wish you the same: a magical day, an inspirational moment, and a quiet reminder that you too are one with all of it.
​
~Wylddane

“It is almost impossible to watch a sunset and not dream.”   ~Unknown

I took this picture many years ago from Talbot Avenue in Pacifica, California—an ordinary evening made extraordinary by the sky’s soft blaze and the hush that settled over the sea. But even now, across time and memory, that moment lives on—etched in light and silence.

Sunrises and sunsets have always felt like secret messages from the universe—wordless transmissions reminding me that time is not linear, but lyrical. A sunrise announces: Begin again. A sunset whispers: You have done enough. Rest now.

Each one is both an ending and a beginning. A threshold. A veil.

What is a sunset but a celestial bow? A quiet gesture of surrender and beauty, unafraid to let go. And what is a sunrise but the universe drawing breath, readying itself for creation?

Even now, as I gaze at this image, I feel the paradox of infinite peace: the sun setting here is rising somewhere else. The light we lose becomes the light someone else receives. We are never truly in darkness, for we are held in a web of radiant becoming.

There is a magic in that—one no clock can measure. Just as the ocean reflects the sky, and the trees lean toward the light, we too are part of a divine choreography. Each sunset is a benediction. Each sunrise a summoning.

And yes, as the unknown poet once said: “It is almost impossible to watch a sunset and not dream.” I would add: it is almost impossible to witness one and not remember who we really are—light, breath, rhythm, soul.
​
This was a wondrous day. Not because it was perfect, but because it was. And because in the golden hush of its ending, I was reminded once again of the miracle of being.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Somewhere, the sun is always rising. Somewhere, the sky is always dreaming.”  ~Wylddane

~Wylddane

“Perhaps the magic of home is not in its walls or windows, but in the way it remembers us—and the way we remember ourselves within it.”  ~Wylddane

There is a mystery to the idea of home. Ask ten people what it means, and you’ll likely receive ten different answers. Ask your soul, however, and the answer may come not in words, but in a feeling—faint as birdsong in morning mist, steady as a tide returning to shore.

The other day, a dear friend shared a memory of visiting my childhood home. “From the first time I walked through that door,” he said, “there was something healing there. A warmth, a welcome. A sense that I belonged.” He wasn’t alone in feeling that way. That modest house with its apple trees and garden paths had a way of wrapping its arms around you. Not just because of the structure, but because of the spirit my parents poured into it—two people who understood how to make a home not just livable, but loving.

And yet, I’ve known others who live in wonderful homes—sunlight-filled rooms, views of lakes and forests, stone fireplaces that dance with light—and still say, it doesn’t feel like home. Why is that?

Perhaps home is not just a place we live in. Perhaps it is a conversation we have with the space around us. It is the echo of our laughter in the halls. The quiet of morning coffee at the window. The shadows we watch move across the wall at dusk. Home, then, is not made instantly. It is layered. Created. Discovered. Sometimes even resisted.

When I first moved from Pacifica to the wee cottage in the woods, I felt untethered. I had traded sea cliffs for pine woods, the rhythm of surf for the hush of forest. For a time, I thought I had made a mistake. The Pacific had been my companion, my grounding. How could this small house, nestled deep in unfamiliar trees, ever be home?

But life, like water, has a way of finding its shape. Slowly, this place began to answer back. A cardinal’s morning call. The way the sun filtered through the trees and spilled gold across the kitchen floor. The hush of snow falling beyond the windows. It was not the place I had left, no—but something new began to take root. And when, years later, I considered leaving it behind, I realized I couldn’t. Not yet. This cottage had become part of me. It had earned its place in my heart.

Still, the question lingers—what makes a place home?

Is it familiarity? A sense of belonging? The memories created there? The love we find—or bring—within its walls?

Or is it something more metaphysical? Something older?

A friend of mine mentioned how he got this sense of belonging whenever he visited Lake Superior—its rocky shores, its cold breath, its endless gaze toward the horizon. He said to me:  "I’ve never lived beside it. But when I stand there, I feel a pull I can’t quite explain. As if something ancient in me is called by something ancient in the lake." Is that home, too? A remembering?

Maybe some places meet us in this lifetime for the first time. Others, we’ve known for centuries, carried forward in the soul. Some we choose. Some choose us.

And still, there are those among us who always feel a bit like outsiders—who never fully settle, who always long for something just beyond reach. But even that has its beauty. To be an outsider means you get to become an architect of your own belonging. You get to create rituals, atmospheres, and sacred spaces of your own making. There is a quiet magic in that.

So, if a house does not yet feel like home, don’t despair. Walk its rooms. Light your candles. Hang your memories gently on the walls. Fill the air with the scent of something you love. Listen. Wait. Sometimes, home arrives not all at once, but in whispers.

And if you find your heart stirred by a rocky shoreline, a dusky trail, or a garden gate somewhere far away—know that the soul makes homes, too, in places it may only visit once.
​
We are not limited to one home, after all.
We are woven from many.
And perhaps the truest home is not where we live…
…but where we feel most alive.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Maybe home isn’t a place, but a rhythm—the way light falls through a window, the hush of twilight, the feeling that something in the world knows your name.”  ~Unknown

~Wylddane

“The soul, like the sea, carries each shore it has ever touched.”  ~Wylddane

There are days—especially during summer’s relentless heat, when the air hangs heavy with humidity and every breath feels wrapped in gauze—when my soul seeks a breeze it once knew. A breeze tinged with salt. A whisper of wind that traveled across the Pacific and curled into my life with the ease of something eternal.

This morning, as I cradle a steaming mug of coffee and watch the haze blur the outlines of my forest home, I find myself drifting—not away from the moment, but deeper into it. For memory, when guided by love, becomes something more than thought. It becomes presence. It becomes home.

The image I took—this one, of Sharp Beach in Pacifica...captures more than light on the curve of a day. It holds the hush that follows rain. The warm softness of the sun as it sinks behind painted clouds. The outline of hills that feel both vast and familiar, echoing with the sacred hush of retreating tide. I remember walking there as the afternoon dissolved into dusk, the sky ablaze with color, and my footsteps tracing the tide’s conversation with the land.

On mornings like this, Pacifica comes alive again...not merely as memory, but as part of me. Pedro Point, Rockaway Beach, and Sharp Park, each a different rhythm in a long, comforting song. The scent of ocean air, the lullaby of waves, the simple joy of ducking into a local café still damp from a beach walk. And always, the nearness of San Francisco...just a heartbeat over the hills, another world that was still somehow mine.

Yet here, in my beloved Northwoods, the day stirs too. A different music rises...the hush of wind in pine branches, the steady presence of river and forest, the quiet companionship of the cottontail rabbit beneath my deck. My wee cottage, surrounded by green and shadow and birdsong, has its own magic. Its own language of home.

And so I wonder: what is home, truly?

They say home is where the heart is. Perhaps that means the heart is more than one thing...more than one place. Perhaps we are not meant to choose between Pacific fog and northern stillness. Perhaps the soul is expansive enough to hold both.

This morning, I am living proof that two places can be true at once. Pacifica, with its salt-kissed evenings and crashing surf, is as real to me now as the mist-hung forest outside my window. And both are sacred.

What a wonderful life it is...to have lived in places that feel like chapters from a love letter written by the Universe itself.

What a wonderful day this is...to sip coffee beside a haze-softened woodland and know that somewhere within me, the ocean still sings.

I am at home.

~Wylddane

Although I cherish my early morning coffee garden walks—those quiet moments of dew-kissed leaves, cardinal songs, and steam rising into dawn—there is nothing quite like a walk along the ocean. The garden is intimate; the sea is infinite.

It is the sound of the waves, I think, that touches my soul. The rhythmic hush and pull, the eternal conversation between sea and shore. A few steps onto the sand, and my mind grows still—empty yet utterly receptive. The ocean doesn't ask questions; it answers them without words.

Evening walks were my favorite. I’d wander the familiar curve of Rockaway Beach in Pacifica, CA, as the sun began its slow, golden descent into the horizon. The cliffs turned crimson. The sea shimmered with a thousand brushstrokes of light. As the day exhaled its final breath, I often paused and realized something beautiful: somewhere beyond that glowing line where sea meets sky, a new day was already beginning.

I would wonder about that. I would think of the people across the curvature of Earth—waking, stretching, pouring coffee, stepping out into their own morning light—as I said goodbye to mine. The globe spins in seamless rhythm, yet every sunset feels personal, every dawn a whispered miracle. Somewhere, someone else is beginning again, even as I am letting go.

It is almost impossible to witness a sunset and not dream.

And so I sit here now—though the northwoods are sticky and fogged with summer humidity, though the map says I’m hundreds of miles away—my spirit is once again on that weathered bench at Rockaway Beach. The colors before me melt from turquoise to flame, from orange to indigo. The waves keep time like a lullaby. I am home, not in place but in presence.

Sunsets are reminders. Of endings. Of beginnings. Of how, in the most luminous and fleeting moments, we are made whole. They ask nothing of us except stillness, reverence, and a quiet acknowledgment of the eternal.

Every sunset carries the promise of a new dawn.

And every step along the ocean's edge is a return to peace, to magic, to self.

 * * * * * * * * * *

"The sun sets to remind us that even the most brilliant light must rest—so it can rise again, renewed."  ~Unknown

~Wylddane




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This morning, as I stepped into my garden with coffee in hand, the world greeted me with a lush breath of green and gold. The air was thick with summer’s warmth, heavy with humidity, and buzzing softly with life.

Thunderstorms may be whispering their way in later today, but for now, the sun pours itself generously over leaf and petal alike. And in that light, along the meandering edge of my path, I came across a flower I’ve never quite named.

But today, I’ve given her a name: "Veloria".

She leans with a sort of graceful weariness, her golden petals curling slightly at the tips, like a dancer pausing in the middle of a reverent bow. A few petals are already loosening, as if caught in the long exhale of summer’s breath. She stands as a quiet sentinel, watching peacefully, listening to wind through trees, and bearing witness to the miracle of morning.

I think of the words of Thich Nhat Hanh:

“People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don't even recognize...”

And how true that is...how often I forget. Especially on mornings when sciatic pain nags at my steps and reminds me that my body, though tired in parts, is still wonderfully alive. I hobble through the garden some days, yes. But I hobble toward birdsong. I hobble through clouds of blooming color. I hobble through sunlight pouring through the pine boughs. I hobble in gratitude.

Veloria, this blossom born of morning light and midsummer dreams, didn’t need my identification to be magnificent. Her moment of bloom...whether brief or lingering...was enough. As I stood in her presence, I remembered: this too is the miracle. Not just the bloom itself, but my seeing it. My being here, now.

The miracle is the moist soil beneath my feet. The steam rising from my coffee mug. The cardinal's fluted call greeting my soul. The memory of laughter. The ache of the body and the lightness of the spirit coexisting in one breath.

And so, I pause. I look. I listen. I give thanks.

Because every moment is a miracle.

Even this one.

* * * * * * * * * *

"The real miracle is to walk on this earth."  ~Thich Nhat Hanh

~Wylddane

This is where the world breathes deeper.

Where the long ribbon of trail unspools from the valley like a whispered invitation into the sky. This picture—taken years ago at the mouth of the Sneath Lane entrance to Sweeney Ridge—is not merely an image. It is a threshold. A memory. A prayer in sunlight and shadow.

When I lived in Pacifica, California, I was blessed to be close to this trail—this quiet path carved along the ancient bones of the San Andreas fault. Here, where tectonic plates whisper secrets beneath the soil, and fog drapes itself lovingly over eucalyptus groves like a memory of something once lost and now returned. I would walk here often, drawn not just by the geography but by the solace it offered—a balm for the soul and a merging of spirit with earth.

Each step was a meditation.
Each breath, an offering.

The paved path, gentle in its slope, carried me past rustling golden grasses, wind-kissed ridges, and the patient silhouettes of hawks wheeling silently above. The occasional cyclist might pass, but the real companionship came from the land itself. From the earth rising and falling like a slow, ancient breath. From the call of unseen songbirds hidden in the brush. From the scent of eucalyptus, sharp and clean, mingling with salt winds rising from the ocean beyond.

Midway up the trail was a grove of those tall, whispering trees—sentinels of peace. Often, they stood in silence beneath a veil of mist, softening the edges of reality. There, I could pause and simply… be. Wrapped in fog, surrounded by stillness, I felt myself dissolve into something greater. The boundary between self and world disappeared.

And then—emerging from the mists to the summit—light would open like a revelation.

The panoramic vista: Pacific Ocean, silver and eternal to the west. San Francisco Bay, cradled and glimmering to the east. Time would pause. The breath of the world would hold. And in that moment, I would feel it—completion.

Some trails are only about distance and elevation.
But Sweeney Ridge was about presence.

Here, the past walked with me—the memory of the Portola Expedition in 1769, standing near the same overlook, glimpsing the Bay for the first time. And the future, too—seen in the clear air, in the resilience of blooming things, in the sacred hush of wind through dry grass. It reminded me, always, of the circle of life.

The creatures below and above the soil.
The waters glinting in distant lakes.
The hawks and songbirds overhead.
The wildness of mountain lions, quietly watching from beyond our knowing.
All part of the balance. All part of the same breath.

I give thanks—for the trail that carried my thoughts into the sky.
For the eucalyptus fog that taught me stillness.
For the golden grasses that knew how to bend and not break.
For the ancient stones beneath the path that reminded me: we are not separate from the earth. We are of it.
​
I walk in meditation.
I sit in reverence.
I bless the water, the air, the growing things, and the sacred silence that speaks louder than words.

And in that sacred walk, I came home to myself.

* * * * * * * * * * 
"There is a way that nature speaks, that land speaks. Most of the time we are simply not patient enough, quiet enough, to pay attention to the story."  ~Linda Hogan

~Wylddane

Although it is a brilliant, cool, and sunlit late July morning, I find myself foregoing my usual garden walk. My steaming mug of coffee, normally cupped in hand as I meander barefoot among lilies and rabbits, is instead cradled beside me here indoors, accompanied not by birdsong, but by the delicate voice of a violin.

Joshua Bell’s interpretation of Dvořák’s Song to the Moon fills the room—each note silken, each phrase a sigh. Though I do not know the original words, the music writes its own poetry into my heart. It is longing and tenderness. It is memory. It is love that spans lifetimes.

And so, despite the golden sun rising above the trees, I find myself staring inward... upward... moonward. I am a child again, gazing out a bedroom window at the great glowing pearl in the night sky. I remember making wishes—secret ones. Wishes for love. For joy. For understanding. For someone, somewhere, to see me and understand me in return.

But this morning, I am not wishing. I am remembering. I am feeling. The music wraps around me like moonlight in early dawn, and I realize I no longer need to ask for anything. The blessings of my life are already here.

I can feel the moon’s pull—not as a plea, but as a presence. It is the part of me that believes in beauty, even in sorrow. The part that remembers love is both dream and reality. That happiness, even fleeting, is real and enough.

Even now, with sunlight glinting off the rim of my coffee cup, I feel the moon. And in that quiet place inside where music and memory meet, I am whole.
​
~Wylddane

This morning in the northwoods arrived cloaked in gray—a blanket of humid stillness pressed gently against the windows, whispering of rain that may or may not come. My usual ritual of stepping barefoot into the garden with a steaming mug of coffee was replaced by the quiet comfort of my dining table. Classical music drifted softly through the room, weaving itself around me like a familiar shawl. And in front of me sat one of my favorite pictures—a portrait of coneflowers dancing in the sunlight.

Each time I gaze upon that image, I feel something stir deep within me. A sense of happiness unfurls—unbidden but welcome. The petals, radiant in their sun-drenched magentas and pinks, reach and bend as though swaying to an unheard melody. They are alive with joy, and in witnessing them, my own spirit begins to sway. A smile rises, soft and certain. The soul remembers.

This is awareness—not a grand epiphany, not a lightning bolt of revelation, but the quiet unfolding of presence. Awareness, in its truest form, does not demand that the sun be shining or that the world align itself to our preferences. It exists even on the gloomiest of days, like today. And in that stillness, when I let go of the wanting and simply am, I see: the beauty is already here.

So often we are swept along by events, by worry, by distraction. The news cycle shouts. The world pulls at us with its never-ending list of urgencies. And yet, in moments like this—in soft gray light, accompanied by a gentle sonata and the rich aroma of coffee—we are invited to pause. To return. To witness.

Dr. Wayne Dyer once wrote, “When you let the Divine grow within you, awareness will be what you bring to all aspects of your life.” I hold that close today. Awareness is not an end goal; it is the path itself. It is the choosing to see the sacred in the mundane, the miracle in the ordinary, the dance in the stillness.

Even now, in the hush of a potential storm, the coneflowers in my photo are still dancing. And so is my heart.
Because, although it doesn’t always seem that way, each moment is precious.

And when we remember that—when we remember to remember—we step into the divine rhythm of life.

So on this soft, gray morning…peaceful awareness is mine. And I am grateful.

* * * * * * * * * *
​
"Awareness is the greatest agent for change."  ~ Eckhart Tolle


~Wylddane