A Halloween reflection from the wee cottage, where the northwoods still murmur with the voices of long ago.

The night was neither silent nor still. Mist drifted low among the trees, wrapping the earth in shifting veils of silver-gray. The forest floor was soft beneath my boots, muffling each step as if the ground itself preferred quiet this time of year. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called — not warning, but welcoming. The air smelled of pine, damp moss, and the faint sweetness of decay, that autumn perfume born of endings and renewal.

As I walked deeper into the woods, I began to feel them — the others. Not in sight or sound, but in the way the air seemed to tremble, as though remembering. The northwoods are old. Older than logging roads and cabins, older than names carved into bark or hearts carved into memory. They have seen hunters and homesteaders, dreamers and drifters, laughter and sorrow — all absorbed into their stillness.

Sometimes, if you listen closely, you can almost hear the echoes. A faint rhythm of axe and saw carried on the wind. Laughter from a fire that burned out a century ago. The whispered chant of a prayer rising with the mist. These are not hauntings meant to frighten — they are the breath of time itself, exhaling through the branches.

I paused beside a clearing where fog gathered like a small lake of smoke. The moon hovered above, pale and ghostly, its reflection caught in invisible ripples. For a heartbeat, I thought I saw a figure — tall, still, its form merging with the trees. Then it was gone, as if it had stepped back into the folds of time from which it came. Perhaps it was only shadow and imagination. Or perhaps it was the forest remembering me.

A gust stirred the pines, their needles sighing like a thousand voices. I whispered back — not in words, but in gratitude — and turned toward home.

* * * * * * * * * *
Now, back in the wee cottage, the windows glow softly against the lingering dark. The haunting beauty of Bach’s Italian Concerto drifts through the room, each note like dew on morning air. My coffee is warm in my hands, its steam rising like a final ghost of the night. Outside, the mist begins to lift. The forest grows quiet again, waiting for the next one who will listen.
​
And so begins another day.

“Between the rustle of leaves and the breath of dawn, the past still speaks.”

~Wylddane

It is a dark, chilly morning. Fog presses against the windows of the wee cottage, soft and heavy, wrapping the world outside in a hushed stillness. The street lamps glow like quiet lanterns, their halos shifting and dissolving in the drifting mist. Inside, the warmth of the room holds me close. A mug of coffee steams at my side, its taste both sharp and comforting, while the haunting, solitary notes of Portrait of Garatea play like a soliloquy—an inward song for the heart.

As this day begins, my mind drifts backward. I see myself at five, six, and seven years old—costumed for Halloween, running wild through the neighborhood streets with friends. There were no parents hovering behind us; they simply let us go, confident we’d find our way back. We would race from house to house, bags filling with candy, laughter bubbling in the night air. At home, we’d feast until our stomachs ached, joy outweighing the sugar. Happy memories, simple and full.

Other memories nudge closer too—me with two dear friends, young adults then, deciding on a whim to venture out to the Castro on Halloween. Costumes thrown together, laughter echoing into the night, joy blooming in improvisation. How vivid it still feels, that rush of youth and freedom.

Memories are the fabric of our lives. They weave themselves into who we are this very morning. And they are not unlike a river.

A river flows endlessly toward the sea, its waters never the same from one moment to the next. We cannot step twice into the same river, for new water is always passing by. So it is with memory. Each time we recall an event, it shifts slightly, like light on rippling water. Recent memories are crystal clear, glittering at the surface. Older ones lie deeper, softened and shadowed, waiting for us to wade down and bring them up again.

A river is shaped by tributaries, by other waters that merge into it, altering its course. So too are we shaped by our experiences, each one flowing into another until they become inseparable. Memory, like a river, is alive. It reshapes us as it flows through us.

And so, this morning, I stand at the riverbank of my own memories. Looking upstream, I see the bright fabric of the life I have lived. Looking downstream, I can only wonder at the bends and rapids yet unseen. But here, where I stand now—in this moment, with coffee in hand, fog pressing at the windows, and music holding my thoughts gently—I realize something: this moment itself is precious. It is the river, flowing beneath my feet.

I cannot hold it, nor can I shape it fully. I can only live it, knowing that what I create here and now will weave itself into tomorrow’s memory, into the river’s eternal journey.

Perhaps the question for today is not what memories will come, but how gently, how gratefully, I will let them flow.
​
Maybe it is time for another sip of coffee.

“We do not remember days, we remember moments.”  ~Cesare Pavese

~Wylddane

These late October mornings arrive cloaked in darkness. When I wake, it is still night outside the windows of the wee cottage. My companions at this hour are the flickering flames in the fireplace, the soft sigh of Borodin’s String Quartet No. 2: Nocturne in D, and the warmth of coffee—the “nectar of the gods”—held close in my hands. Each sip is a benediction, each note of music a quiet thread binding me to the unfolding day.

And then, slowly, the waiting is answered. The first light steals across the horizon. What moments ago was shadowed and muted is suddenly bathed in gold, as though the sun itself had spilled a chalice of molten light upon the world. This morning’s sunrise, fiery and bold, turns the ordinary into the extraordinary.

In my imagination, I follow the sun’s first rays as they chase through the autumn forest. The deer pause mid-step, their breath silver in the air, eyes glinting with reflected fire. The bear, heavy with sleep, lingers a moment longer to gaze upon the spectacle. The squirrels gather on high branches, tails curled like banners, bearing silent witness. It is as if all creation halts for an instant to hear the ancient whispers carried on the dawn.

The sun is no mere star—it is an elder spirit, an oracle, pouring out secrets to any who will pause to listen. Its warmth is a hymn of resilience, its brilliance a reminder of infinite potential. Like a mighty orchestra, it crescendos into the morning sky, its notes carried not on strings or horns but on light itself.

With this melody in my heart, I step into the new day. The hours before me are unwritten pages. Where will they lead? What songs will be sung, what stories told, what small miracles revealed? Perhaps the only word needed to begin the tale is the simplest of all—peace.
​
“The sun, the bright sun, that brings back, not light alone, but new life, and hope, and freshness to man.”   ~Charles Dickens

~Wylddane

The soft, gentle notes of Lara Downes at the piano, playing Prayer, spill their own mystical light across this dark and cloudy morning. At this hour, night still presses against the windows. I am grateful for the warmth of the wee cottage, for the comfort of a steaming mug of coffee beside me.

It is late October, and soon November will begin. Most of the deciduous trees have already let go of their leaves; only here and there remains a blaze of color. I have always preferred the meteorological calendar with winter beginning on December 1, for winter feels very near on mornings such as this. Autumn—my favorite season—always carries a thread of nostalgia, and a hint of melancholy.

Last night, drifting toward sleep, I heard the wind in the dry leaves through the open window. They whispered their stories of what has been—or perhaps sang the songs of late fall. Each season brings its lessons, but autumn in particular seems to carry the weight of memory. Bare branches stretch toward the sky like outstretched hands, and the ground rustles with dry leaves, as if time itself were brushing by.

This season is fleeting, and perhaps that is why it stirs such anticipatory nostalgia—the knowing that even as we live in this golden moment, it is already passing. Autumn’s slowing rhythm invites us to slow ourselves, to reflect, to hold space for the memories that rise unbidden: loving, rough, inspiring, painful, and sometimes simply ordinary. A riot of memory, like these woods ablaze with color, reflected in the quiet water of a lake.

And in these reflections I find compassion—not only for the sweetness of remembered joys, but also for the complicated textures of human life. Some memories are bright, some are shadowed, yet all are part of the fabric we carry. Just as autumn does not withhold its beauty even as leaves fall, so too can we hold both tenderness and sorrow together in our hearts.

This morning, gazing at the photograph of a sunny autumn day, I find myself both stilled and lifted. The season teaches me again to be present—to see beauty, to honor memory, to carry forward compassion. And in that, there is light.

“The song of autumn is written in golden leaves and whispered winds.”   ~Wylddane

~Wylddane

One of the quiet blessings of living in the northwoods is that even the simplest errands can turn into small pilgrimages. A grocery list may be four items long, yet the return journey becomes an unfolding gift when I choose the scenic way home. Yesterday, that choice brought me to a small lake, its waters shimmering sapphire in the crisp light of October.

As I rounded the curve of the road, the lake opened before me—and there they were. A flock of snow geese scattered across its mirrored surface, their white feathers catching the sun like drifting stars. I had to stop. Such moments demand reverence. Camera in hand, I captured an image, but even as I did, I knew the truest memory was the one I carried in my heart: the sudden hush of awe, the reminder that life is filled with arrivals we never planned, and that beauty, unbidden, will always find us.

Snow geese are legendary travelers. They cross thousands of miles between Arctic breeding grounds and southern resting places, guided by the sun, the stars, and the earth’s magnetic field. Their great migrations have been watched for centuries, woven into story and song. For many Indigenous peoples, the snow goose was more than a bird—it was a messenger. White feathers carried the breath of life, a whisper between earth and heaven, a sign of protection and hope. Their flight became a living parable of resilience, freedom, and the soul’s long journey toward renewal.

Yesterday, as I stood by that little roadside lake, I wondered if these geese were messengers to me as well. What words were borne on their wings? What healing might they carry in their white-feathered flight? No answer came, but that was not the point. The point was the stillness. The peace. The opening of my own spirit to the possibility of wonder.

Now it is morning once again. The world is slowly waking, daylight just beginning to spill through the trees, lifting the folds of night. I sit with a steaming mug of coffee, Sissel’s crystalline voice filling the room as she sings Dvořák’s Going Home. The melody is tender, filled with both longing and assurance. I’ve often thought of it as a song about endings, about crossing from one place to another. Yet today it feels different. Today it feels like arrival, like belonging, like home.

Perhaps that is the gift of the snow geese—reminding me that home is not always a place we reach at the end of a long road. Sometimes it is a moment. A morning. A song. A flock of white feathers drifting across a blue lake.

So I begin this day with an affirmation, holding it like a candle:
​
"Yesterday is not, tomorrow is not. But today, bright with hope and filled with promise, is mine."  ~Ernest Holmes

~Wylddane

Through the trees, the Clam River glimmers in October light, a ribbon of silver-blue framed by golden leaves. Its waters move gently now, but they carry the memory of centuries—each ripple echoing the footsteps, dreams, and stories of those who came before.

Long ago, Native Americans called it Kenesca-Seba, the “Clam Shell River.” The nearby falls, now known to us as Clam Falls, were Cobbekonta—“Little Falls.” Along its banks, Woodland peoples left signs of their lives nearly fifteen hundred years ago: burial mounds, fragments of tools, whispers of ceremonies carried into the present. Even today, the St. Croix Band of Lake Superior Ojibwe continue to live along the river, gathering wild rice, fishing, and honoring the land with traditions that flow as steadily as the current itself.

In the 1840s, another story began as loggers came north. The Clam River became a busy highway of floating timber, each log destined for sawmills farther downstream. In 1886, heavy rains and bitter rivalries over a dam transformed the river into the stage of one of the greatest logjams in the history of the St. Croix. For weeks, the water choked with pine and cedar, a tangle of human ambition and the river’s patient resistance.

Other ventures came and went—attempts to mine copper and silver in 1857, and later the mussel shell harvests that fed the pearl button industry farther south along the Mississippi. The Clam itself was not the heart of that trade, but its clear waters sheltered mussels, quiet witnesses to yet another fleeting industry.

And yet, despite all this, the river endures. To walk along its banks is to listen. The Clam River speaks not only of history, but of the way a river mirrors life itself. It begins quietly, gathers strength, bends around obstacles, slows in wide pools, then quickens again. Its song is one of persistence, renewal, and grace. Are we not all, in our own ways, much like a river—shaped by time, tested by storms, and yet always moving forward toward a wider sea?
​
This morning, as I sit in the wee cottage with coffee warming my hands, I let these thoughts drift like leaves upon the current. Outside, the October dark still lingers, pressing against the windows, while inside, light from a single lamp glows golden. A sonata plays softly, strings weaving their own river of sound. I pause, listening—to the music, to memory, to the promise of this day not yet written. The river flows, and so too does life, onward with hope and sunshine.

“Time is like a river. You cannot touch the same water twice, because the flow that has passed will never pass again.”   ~Unknown

~Wylddane

“Winter is coming.” Those words from George R. R. Martin echo across the northwoods with a truth that needs no embellishment. Though the days remain mostly mild, we know the rhythm of the seasons well. Each frosted night whispers what is to come. Just two nights ago, the temperature fell to 24°F—a hard freeze, sharp and unyielding. In its quiet severity, it reminded me that one season is bowing out while another begins its solemn entrance.

Because of that freeze, I brought inside the begonia that had flourished on the deck all summer. Now, its blossoms—an unrestrained chorus of scarlet—fill the space behind my kitchen sink. As I placed it there, I leaned in and whispered softly: “Now you are safe from the cold.”

Those words, meant for the plant, ripple outward with deeper resonance. To be safe from the cold is not merely about sheltering from frost. It is to understand the mystical dance between the fire within and the freeze without. It is the recognition of the “invincible summer” Albert Camus spoke of—an eternal warmth in the heart that no season, no darkness, can ever extinguish.

The body may feel the bite of wind, yet the soul may still linger in springtime. To be safe from the cold is to turn inward, to find a quiet hearth glowing within. It is not just shelter but a gentle homecoming, a reminder that warmth begins in the heart. Even as the world outside grows sharp and bare, we can kindle a small light of peace that steadies us.

Winter’s hush is not emptiness but a season of quiet tending. Beneath the frozen ground, roots deepen and strength gathers unseen. What looks like stillness is really preparation, a gathering of breath before another blossoming. To be safe is to trust this rhythm—the slow work of life moving invisibly, faithfully, toward renewal.

And this safety is not ours alone. It is something shared. A kind word, a soft glance, a moment of laughter can warm another soul more than firewood ever could. When we keep our hearts tender, we become a flame that others may draw near, carrying one another through the longest nights.

Perhaps most of all, to be safe from the cold is to remember that change is never the end, only a transformation. The bare trees, though stripped of their summer glory, hold secret life in their branches. We too carry within us the promise of return, a strength that the frost cannot diminish.

This morning, as Haydn’s Imperial Symphony plays softly in the background, I sip coffee and watch the darkness pressing still against the windows of the wee cottage. I cannot yet see the day, but I know it is beginning. Morning stirs, unseen but certain.

And I am safe from the cold.
​
In these unsettling, dangerous times, may we all find that same sanctuary—that inner invincible summer, that shared warmth—and may we all be safe from the cold.

“The warmth we carry within becomes the light that guides us through the longest winters.” ~Unknown

~Wylddane

Whenever I think of sumac, I think of roadside fires—vivid splashes of crimson that arrive before all others, heralding autumn’s sure approach. They stand like beacons, whispering to us that the turning of the year is underway. Now it is late October, and here at the edge of my garden, a single branch burns with scarlet brilliance, each leaf aflame with its own quiet radiance.

I wondered, as I often do, what the first people who walked these forests called sumac. I found that their word was baakwaanaatig, a name that carries not just the tree but the abundance of it—the sense of “there is a lot of sumac.” In that simple word lies history, language, and reverence for the natural world. Long before our textbooks, sumac was medicine and flavor: its fuzzy red berries, rich in vitamin C, steeped in cold water to make a tart, refreshing drink; its dried berries, ground into a spice, dusted over food like a savory kiss from the earth. Wisdom hidden in plain sight, if only we pause to listen.

This morning, I wonder if the brilliance of these red leaves is now etched with frost. A hard freeze came last night, cloaking the garden in crystalline lace. Perhaps each leaf is tipped with silver, shimmering in the hush of dawn.

Inside, the first notes of Beethoven’s Fifth drift gently through the room, stirring the air, reminding me of the mystery and majesty of life itself. The dark sky presses against the window like a weight of late October, but here in my wee cottage, my coffee mug anchors me. Steam rises like prayer.

What a gift it is to wake, to breathe, to greet another day. To marvel at a simple branch of sumac, at once an ancient teacher and a morning companion. I feel full of enthusiasm, alive to the wonders of this world.

Gratitude swells—not for grand things alone, but for treasures both small and great: the music of leaves, the warmth of coffee, the enduring dance of seasons.
​
And so, with another sip, I step into this magical day—awake, alert, thankful. The sumac has sung its song, and I carry its flame within me.

✨ “Gratitude is the fairest blossom which springs from the soul.”  ~Henry Ward Beecher

~Wylddane

There is a forest just beyond my backyard. To the casual glance it is only trees—oaks, maples, and pines, their branches dressed now in the golden robes of autumn. But to me, it is a portal. It calls softly, a whisper in the morning air, beckoning me to step past the threshold of the ordinary and into a world spun of wonder.

Through the leaves a path unfolds, each step accompanied by the quiet murmur of secrets shared in rustling tones. The canopy above is not just foliage—it is a tapestry, woven from fire, gold, and shadow, shifting with the light as if alive with hidden magic.

As I walk in imagination, the forest stirs with presences unseen yet deeply felt. I glimpse the long-forgotten druids, keepers of mysteries, leaning on their staffs, watching as the seasons turn. Forest fairies flit among the branches, their wands brushing the leaves so that each one glows brighter before drifting down to join the mosaic underfoot. A deer pauses at the edge of the clearing, its eyes pools of ancient knowing. A squirrel scampers past, tail high, carrying with it the laughter of small spirits. Even the raccoon, with its mask of midnight, seems touched by enchantment.

Here, time ceases to matter. The woods breathe peace. I feel it seep into me, gentling my thoughts, steadying my heart. The forest is both sanctuary and story—one that has been told a thousand times and yet waits for me to tell it anew.

And then—I awake from reverie. The wee cottage enfolds me once more. My mug of coffee steams patiently at hand, its aroma mingling with the golden glow from the window. The elegant notes of Shostakovich’s piano concerto linger in the quiet rooms, graceful and haunting, like a memory of the forest carried into this moment.

So begins another day in the northwoods. Another chapter, blank and waiting, ready to be written with hope, with gratitude, with wonder.
​
“And the forest sang with voices older than time, weaving peace into every leaf and stone.”  ~Unknown

~Wylddane

Yesterday, while the rain fell with a steady, silvery rhythm, the garden transformed into a watercolor dream. The leaves, dampened and darkened by the chill, clung to the earth as though unwilling to let go of their brief season of glory. Crimson pressed against gold, emerald nestled beside indigo, and russet bled into amber. The rain traced their veins like ink on parchment, giving each leaf a story—each story whispering of summer’s laughter and autumn’s quiet surrender.

It seemed to me, standing in the drizzle with my camera, that the ground had become a painter’s canvas. Nature herself had spilled her palette upon the soil, careless and intentional all at once. These leaves, fallen yet radiant, spoke of endings that were not sorrowful but celebratory, a final dance before the hush of winter.

I lingered in that garden of leaves, listening to the rain. The droplets tapped a thousand tiny notes, as though the world were playing a soft percussion beneath the gray sky. My breath fogged in the cool air, and I felt the turning of the season deep in my bones—the way the world sighs as it prepares to rest.

And now, morning has arrived. The reverie of the rain-soaked leaves drifts away like mist on the air. Here I sit in my wee cottage, the cloudy October sky pressing against the windows. In my hand, a mug of steaming coffee rises like a small, fragrant hearth-fire, warming my body and centering my spirit. From the stereo, the haunting notes of Handel’s Rinaldo float across the room, Cynthia Bartolo’s voice lifting, aching, and resounding through these quiet spaces.

I pause, grateful. Grateful for autumn’s garden, for rain that paints, for leaves that teach me the beauty of letting go. Grateful, too, for the cocoon of warmth in which I now sit, ready to step into the unwritten day.

Today is a blank chapter, waiting to be filled. And I, heart full, am eager to write it with gratitude, joy, and wonder.

“Autumn shows us how beautiful it is to let things go.”  ~ Unknown

~Wylddane