This morning I noticed—as if it were a first-time noticing—how dark it is at the hour my eyes first open. Now the morning sky is many shades of pink as the sun emerges to greet the day. I sip from my mug of coffee and greet this day. May we all step forward with courage… and with kind and nurturing thoughts etched upon our souls.

It is said: “Be kind in your thoughts. Your mind believes what you feed it. Speak as though you are nurturing someone that you love. Because you are.” These words remind me that before we even speak aloud, there is a language we whisper constantly to ourselves—the language of thought. Too often, it is a language of harsh judgment, impatience, or regret. Yet, kindness begins here, in the inner sanctuary of the mind. When we choose to speak gently within ourselves, we awaken gentleness toward others.

Among the Native peoples of this land, the elders told of The Two Ravens of Balance. One raven, Memory, carries the weight of the past, while the other, Vision, bears the light of the future. These wise ones—teachers, storytellers, and keepers of tradition—passed down this tale to remind the people that “neither past nor future alone can guide you. Walk the path where both birds meet, for in their crossing lies balance.”

How beautiful a lesson—that wisdom is born where remembrance and hope entwine. Memory gifts us humility, reminding us of the ancestors who came before and the lessons carved by their journeys. Vision gifts us courage, urging us forward into what is yet unseen. Together, they show us that kindness is not simply a thought for the moment—it is a thread that ties yesterday’s wisdom to tomorrow’s promise.

And so, quiet time becomes sacred time. In the stillness of dawn, with coffee in hand and the sky slowly brightening, I find myself walking that path between the ravens. I honor what has been, I nurture what is, and I speak softly to the dream of what is yet to come.

For true wisdom lives here—in the quiet balance between memory and vision, guided by thoughts that are kind and words that nurture.

“In the hushed moments of dawn, memory and vision clasp hands.” ~Anon

~Wylddane

In just a few days, October will arrive, carrying with it the full embrace of autumn. Yet here in the Northwoods, late September lingers with unusually warm temperatures, as though summer is reluctant to loosen its hold. The forecast promises this warmth for another week, and one wonders: will this be a mild fall and winter? When will the cooler, rainy days arrive, if at all?

No matter. With gratitude in my heart, I raise my coffee mug in salute to this radiant morning. The fountain on the deck burbles cheerfully, offering its own music to the dawn. Songbirds have already taken flight to southern skies, but their absence is filled with the calls of Canadian geese gathering on the nearby lake. Their honks carry across the air—an unmistakable reminder that even when the warmth lingers, the season is quietly turning.

As I sit in this golden light, a phrase drifts into my mind: religions divide, spirituality unites. Perhaps it comes from growing older and, I hope, a bit wiser. I know religion well; I grew up among fundamentalism and evangelical fervor, and in my early adulthood I turned away from it. I came to abhor the rigid boundaries, the sharp lines drawn between "us" and "them."

Religion, bound in doctrine and exclusivity, often insists on one narrow path and labels others as false. This has sown conflict for centuries. Yet spirituality—spirituality is different. It does not bind, but frees. It is the quiet, inner wisdom that lives within us all, calling us toward love, kindness, and connection. It is not a matter of dogma but of presence. It does not demand adherence but invites seeking. Spirituality is the recognition of the divine essence woven into every being, into rivers, mountains, and skies.

This morning, I came across words from Indigenous Pride that stir my soul:
"Our identity is carved in the rivers, the mountains, and the sacred fire that never dies. We live as guardians of traditions, bound to the earth in spirit and truth."

Such words remind me that spirituality is not about separation but belonging. Not about walls, but about rivers flowing, fire burning, mountains rising. Spirituality is a song of unity—of finding common ground in shared values of compassion, generosity, and hope.

So on this late September morning, surrounded by the colors of autumn fire and under the canopy of a brilliant blue sky, I feel my spirit rise. I feel it singing with joy, envisioning a world no longer divided by creeds and conflicts, but joined by love. For beneath the many names, the many languages, the many forms—there is but one light, one breath, one sacred truth that unites us all.
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“When I see Spirit in everything, Peace is at hand.”  ~A Course in Miracles

~Wylddane

These late September days are edged in gold, the deciduous trees quietly shifting into their autumn splendor. Yet this morning, as I sip from my mug of coffee and gaze out the window, my mind drifts far from the forest and rivers of the Northwoods. It drifts back to Sharp Beach, to a place that once was only a few blocks from home.

Ocean walks were my meditation. A rough day? Go for a walk by the sea. A splendid dawn? Greet it with a walk. Restless in the house? Let the surf call me out. Exercise, rain, wind, or calm—the answer was always the same: go for an ocean walk. Some days I walked until my thoughts smoothed out like the tide-washed sand. Some days I walked simply for the joy of the gulls’ chatter, the salt air, the sweep of waves meeting shore. Rainy days were the most treasured of all—the soft patter on my jacket, the empty pier, the sense that the ocean and I held a secret together.

This morning, though 2,000 miles away, I walk again. In my mind I begin at the pier, the railings cold and damp beneath my hand. I set off toward Mori Point, the rhythm of my stride syncing with the rise and fall of surf. I hear the greetings of fellow walkers, just as rain-brightened and stubbornly joyful as I. I breathe in the calm, and with each breath, release the heaviness of troubling times.

Emily Dickinson once wrote of hope as “the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.” On this walk, I feel it. Hope is not wishful thinking—it is a presence, a companion, a flame that glows even when storms crowd the horizon. It is the whisper that tomorrow will shine brighter, and the quiet courage that steadies me today.

And so I walk—within memory, within imagination, and within spirit. And as I return, I open my eyes to the here and now. My coffee is still warm. Outside, the maple by the window blazes with orange and gold. The day is beginning, and I feel lighter, steadier, guided.

And now, perhaps, just one more cup of coffee before stepping fully into the day.
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“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.” — Desmond Tutu

~Wylddane

I took this picture a few years ago in an area more deeply wooded and even less populated than the quiet place where the wee cottage rests. Whenever I gaze at this photograph, the words of Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” stir within me. There is a whimsical, almost magical quality to this road in the forest. Where does it lead? Where will it lead? Where might it lead me if I choose to walk it?

It occurs to me that every decision we face in life is a road like this. At times, we take the well-worn path, the one that seems most practical, familiar, or safe. Yet there are other times when something within us urges us toward the road less traveled—the uncertain, the untested, the bold. Those are the decisions that shape us most profoundly.

In my own life, I can recall moments when I chose the less comfortable way, the path others might have avoided. Though challenging, I have never regretted those choices. Difficult roads often lead to unexpected beauty, new strength, and deep spiritual growth. They ask more of us, but in return they give more back—teaching us resilience, faith, and vision.

The road less traveled is not without risk, yet it is rich with possibility. Just as diamonds shine with such brilliance because they are rare, so too is there value in living an uncommon life. The choices that set us apart—our willingness to follow a different calling, to see the world differently, to embrace our uniqueness—can become our greatest strength.

And so I sit here this cool September morning, coffee mug steaming, the aroma rising like a quiet prayer. Outside the window, the maple tree glows with the first hints of orange and gold. I look at the photograph of the forest road and wonder: which paths will I walk today? Which decisions will lead me toward growth, discovery, and joy?

The answer, perhaps, is not so much in knowing the destination as in having the courage to take that step forward—trusting that every road has its purpose, and that even the less traveled ones lead us home.
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“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”   ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

~Wylddane

Although September began with mornings cooler than expected, it has now found its rhythm: nights touched with crisp air, followed by days that unfold in sunlit mildness. Already this morning, as I sip from my mug of coffee, I see golden rays spilling gently across the trees. Leaves still green seem even greener in this light, while those that have already turned red and gold shimmer with richer hues. September sunlight is softer than the brilliance of midsummer; it carries a mellow glow, a golden sheen that seems to invite reflection.

Here in this part of the northwoods, we are fortunate to live near the St. Croix River. One of my favorite places to pause, to simply be, is Osceola Landing. The photo before me was taken there, at a bend where water and sky conspire to create beauty in every season. The still water reflects the trees like a mirror, doubling the abundance of autumn color. A single green leaf in the foreground reminds me of how the present moment always holds a vivid, living pulse.

This river has seen much more than I ever will. Archaeologists tell us that people lived along its banks thousands of years ago—ancient Woodland cultures and even earlier Archaic peoples, including the Old Copper Culture. These were some of the first in the world to shape tools, ornaments, and weapons from native copper mined around Lake Superior. Imagine: long before cities, long before written history, these waters carried trade and stories. The St. Croix became a corridor, a pathway for survival and community, its currents carrying not only goods but culture and memory.

Centuries later, in 1844, Osceola became a river town, thriving as logging boomed and steamboats plied the river’s breadth. This very landing where I now sit on a bench, once saw logs floating by the thousands, men working, boats arriving and departing. Today, the sounds are gentler: paddles dipping in the water, children laughing along the shoreline, travelers finishing a canoe trip begun upriver. It is a place of history, of continuity, of change.

And here I sit, in the blink of an eye compared to all that has come before. My existence is brief, yet I am grateful to live in this moment, to witness this river as it glimmers in golden morning light. The river teaches me: what you see now is already downstream, gone. Every instant is unique, never to return. This impermanence, rather than frightening, brings peace. It reminds me that life is made of moments—and that being fully present is a gift beyond measure.

September itself whispers lessons. It is a season of letting go, as trees prepare to shed what no longer serves them. In that quiet release is wisdom for us, too: to set aside burdens, to surrender old worries, to lighten our spirits. In this way, the rhythm of nature becomes a guide, showing us how to embrace renewal.

So this day begins: coffee mug warm in my hands, golden light soft across the trees, gratitude filling my soul. I am part of this ancient land, this vast universe, this unfolding present. And in that awareness, I find peace.

“To sit quietly and listen to the river is to hear the song of eternity.”   ~Anonymous

~Wylddane

This morning dawned with the woods and gardens wrapped in a damp, silvery fog. Though the sky still held the weight of darkness, I carried my hot mug of coffee to the front steps, eager to feel the pulse of a new day.

From the corner of my property, the great oak stood sentinel, its branches etched against the mist. Rays of light spilled from the streetlamp, caught and scattered by the fog, turning into luminous ribbons that danced across the yard. I smiled at the quiet spectacle, a simple gift of wonder offered freely to those who paused long enough to see.

The air was so heavy with moisture that it dripped from every surface—branches, leaves, even the front steps—gathering and falling with the soft percussion of raindrops. That gentle sound, neither storm nor silence, seemed to belong to another world, a world where time slows and everything breathes in unison.

Is there not magic in these moments? A foggy morning is an invitation, soft and unhurried, to step aside from haste and enter into reflection. Just as the day emerges slowly from the mist, so too do we find clarity in stages—small unveilings, one after another, if only we are willing to wait. Fog blurs the edges of the familiar, transforming the ordinary into something mysterious and new. It hushes the clamor of the world, leaving space for thought, for journaling, for a sip of coffee savored without rush.

These mornings carry the promise of renewal. They are a gentle reset, a whispered reminder that we can begin the day with peace rather than urgency, with intention rather than obligation.

Now, as I lift my head from these words, I see the light has strengthened. The fog has thinned. My coffee, once steaming, has grown cool. And yet I am warmed by what remains: this moment, this quiet threshold of day. I begin with faith. I begin with hope. I begin by simply being.
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I am. I am in this moment.

“Fog does not conceal the world; it teaches us to see it differently.”

~Wylddane

This September morning dawned with cool air pressing gently against the windows, fog brushing the glass like a soft hand. Inside the wee cottage, warmth wraps around me like a familiar quilt. Classical music flows in the background—today, a theme on Paganini, one of my favorites—its notes bright and fluid, almost like the river itself.

On my desk rests the picture I took of the Apple River, painted in sun and shadow. I linger on the memory of that afternoon: golden light filtering through branches, the water a shifting canvas of blue and green, the quiet peace of being present. It is already a great way to begin the day, eh?

Steam curls upward from my coffee mug, carrying its rich, earthy fragrance. I pause, sip, and let myself simply be here. This small ritual becomes a doorway into gratitude. As Abraham Joshua Heschel once reminded us, “Get up in the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted.”

Every morning is a chance to begin again. Each breath, each note of music, each glimpse of light through fog is part of creation’s endless unfolding. Ernest Holmes wrote: “Everything is continuously being re-created, and it literally is true that the creative Spirit is forever making a new heaven and a new Earth.” How reassuring it is to know that life is never finished—it is always in the act of becoming.

So here I sit, coffee warming my hands, Paganini dancing in the air, memory and presence intertwining like sunlight on the river. And I smile at the mystery of it all. To be alive in this moment, to be part of this wonderful, magical universe—that is gift enough to carry me into the day.

“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.”  ~Thornton Wilder

~Wylddane

This morning dawned cooler than those just past. The French door is closed against the early chill, yet warmth and beauty fill the wee cottage. The gentle notes of Pachelbel’s Canon drift through the rooms, a counterpoint to the quiet stillness outside. My coffee mug, fragrant and hot, rests close at hand—a simple panacea to the senses: the aroma soothing, the taste enlivening, the warmth grounding.

Through the window, I see the rhythms of autumn unfolding: chrysanthemums ablaze with gold and amber, and beyond them, a carpet of fallen leaves whispering of change. The beauty of this morning moves in harmony with words that stay with me:

"Life is not a single experience. Life is always changing, and every day of your life...every moment of every day...represents something new, which can be used in uncountable new ways if you decide to view it that way."  ~Dr. Wayne Dyer

Nature teaches this truth with effortless grace. The seasons turn, each one bringing its own lessons: blossoms yielding to fruit, light giving way to shadow, warmth surrendering to frost. All are part of a greater whole, equally necessary for balance. As I honor the cycles of the earth, so I learn to honor the cycles within my own life—moments of growth, moments of letting go, moments of quiet reflection.

Sometimes I notice these lessons clearly. Sometimes I stumble past them, distracted. Yet always I return to the rhythm, remembering that what matters most is not perfection but willingness. The willingness to see each moment as new, as alive with possibility, as a gift.

And so, on this autumn morning, I pause in gratitude. I send peace into the day, trusting that it will ripple outward into the world. The cycles continue, the music plays on, and a new day begins.

“Be willing to be a beginner every single morning.”  ~Meister Eckhart

~Wylddane

It seems the autumn colors are arriving early this year. Then again, perhaps it is only this village—perched here in the Northwoods—that gathers the season’s hues sooner than those areas to the south or north. I’ve noticed this before. Or perhaps it is simply in my mind. Regardless, coffee cup in hand, I gaze in awe at the fiery brilliance of the old oak in my backyard. Its crown glows with red and orange, while its roots remain wrapped in summer green.

In moments like this, I feel the weight of the past pressing gently against me—this land’s ancient history nudging me. It reminds me that I am only a small part of a greater whole, a fleeting moment in time. And yet, it is my moment.

This region was once home to the Chippewa, Menominee, Oneida, Potawatomi, and Ho-Chunk. In 1634, Jean Nicolet arrived, seeking the fabled Northwest Passage. France laid claim in 1672; Britain seized it after the French and Indian Wars; and following the American Revolution, Wisconsin became U.S. territory in 1783.

In the 19th century, logging transformed the land. Rivers like the Wisconsin, Wolf, Black, and Chippewa became conduits for timber, fueling towns like Eau Claire and Black River Falls. Fishing thrived too, especially after the Sault Ste. Marie canal opened in 1855, sending whitefish to distant markets. Then, as the forests were cut and the fisheries declined, Northwest Wisconsin found its next identity in tourism, leveraging its lakes and woods. This is also the land of Gaylord Nelson, founder of Earth Day, whose legacy still calls us to stewardship. And it is here, in this layered history, that the wee cottage in the woods resides.

Yet as my mind often does in the quiet of early morning, it wandered further. I found myself asking: Is fascism only a 20th-century phenomenon?

And this is the evidence that I found.  The brutality we associate with fascism was most evident in Mussolini’s Italy and Hitler’s Germany—where violence, suppression, and genocide scarred humanity. Born out of the upheavals of World War I, fascism exalted the state, glorified force, and sought to silence opposition. But fascism did not die in 1945. Its modern offspring—neo-fascism and authoritarianism—rise again in our own time. We see ultranationalism, racism, xenophobia, and the erosion of democratic institutions. We see intimidation and scapegoating. We see echoes of history that should have remained silent.

These are not politics as usual. This is a question of morality. I name myself proudly: WOKE. Proudly: ANTIFA—anti-fascist. The question remains: What can I do? What can we do? The answers are not always clear. But I believe that each of us, though only a small part, contributes to the greater whole. Together, united in conscience, we are the majority that rejects this evil. Each of us matters. Together, we are monumental.

And so I return to peace—to the oak tree, to the shifting colors, to the word shalom. More than the absence of conflict, shalom speaks of wholeness, harmony, well-being. To pray for peace is to pray for every person to have their needs met, to live in balance, to share in the abundance of this beautiful Earth.

This morning, as the oak tree reminds me of both history and hope, I pray shalom—for myself, for my neighbors near and far, for all peoples of the world. May we stand against darkness. May we live for the common good. May we know peace.

And so I start this day.
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Shalom.

“True peace is not merely the absence of tension; it is the presence of justice.”  ~Martin Luther King Jr.

~Wylddane

Yesterday morning, though the sky was heavy with clouds, I paused to take this picture of the fuchsia that now graces my porch. I had found it at a local big box store a few weeks ago, sitting among the leftovers of summer. It was a bit sickly looking, marked down to five dollars, but something in me whispered, “why not?” I brought it home, watered it, fed it, and gave it care. And now, in its renewed strength, it rewards me with blooms of delicate beauty, vibrant pink and white dancers swaying in the breeze.

Later yesterday, the rain began—gentle at first, then steady, lasting into the night. This morning dawned damp and quiet, the French door open to the fragrance of fresh rain on Northwoods earth. The air itself feels like a balm, cool and clean, carrying the promise of peace.

The symphony of summer birds has faded now; they have taken flight toward warmer lands. In their absence, the sounds shift—the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze, an occasional honk from the geese at the lake. I smile, wondering what their conversations might be. My faithful mug of coffee rests in my hand, warm and grounding. Each sip, each breath, roots me more deeply into this moment.

I feel a peace here, a solitude that does not weigh heavy but rather uplifts. In this stillness, I remember: prayer does not change the outer landscape—it changes the inner one. The rains may fall, the seasons shift, the skies darken or brighten, but what matters is the state of the soul within. Each moment of release, each quiet act of surrender, transforms the way I see and experience the world around me.

And so, I remind myself: life is lived one step at a time, one moment at a time, one day at a time. Each moment is not just a pause along the journey but a destination in itself—a holy instant of peace and presence.

This morning, I begin with gratitude. Gratitude for the beauty of a flower rescued and renewed. Gratitude for the rain-soaked air. Gratitude for the quiet, the geese, the coffee, and the unseen blessings yet to unfold. My heart is full, my soul is at rest, and I release everything else into the hands of the Universe.
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“Sometimes I go about pitying myself, and all the while I am carried across the sky by beautiful clouds.” ~Ojibwe Proverb

~Wylddane