"Begonia Moments" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“Summer returns each year, but no summer is ever the same. That is why we treasure them—and why we remember.” ~Wylddane's Morning Reflections Series
A new morning has arrived.
Early summer sunlight is flooding the yard outside the wee cottage, spilling across the grass and through the leaves with that particular generosity that belongs to June. The coffee is especially good this morning. Perhaps it always tastes better when the day is young and full of promise.
Outside my open window, a robin is singing its cheerful song. Somewhere nearby, an oriole flashes like a living ember among the trees. And then there is the catbird, offering its remarkable imitation of a feline complaint and causing me to smile as it always does.
My morning routine is simple and familiar.
The stereo is tuned to Classical California. Gentle music drifts through the cottage. I pour my first mug of coffee and savor that first sip that seems to announce the official beginning of the day. Before settling down to write, I step outside and water the potted plants. The begonias, like the one in the photograph, seem especially happy this morning, their leaves and blossoms catching the sunlight in ways that make them appear almost painted.
I make certain the birdbath is full of fresh water.
That small task always brings a quiet satisfaction. Before long, it will become one of the neighborhood's busiest watering holes. Robins, chickadees, orioles, nuthatches, and perhaps even a curious squirrel or two will stop by for a drink or a bath. It feels good to provide a small place of refreshment in the world.
Now I am back inside with a second mug of coffee, and my thoughts drift backward.
Perhaps it is because meteorological summer has arrived.
Perhaps it is because mornings have a way of opening doors to memory.
I find myself thinking about another lake, another summer, and another version of myself.
Long ago, on warm summer evenings, a group of us gathered at a friend's beach on the south end of the lake where I grew up. There was an anchored raft a short distance from shore. To us, it seemed like the center of the universe.
We would swim out to it, climb aboard, and spend hours there.
We dove into the water.
We watched the sun sink toward the trees.
We gossiped and laughed as only children can.
Bill.
Mike.
Terry.
Troy.
The names arrive like echoes carried across still water.
Those boys were my friends. My companions in those endless summers when we believed there would always be another June waiting just beyond the horizon.
Yet today they are gone.
Sometimes that realization still catches me by surprise.
How did I become the last one standing?
I do not know.
I suspect there are no answers that fully satisfy such questions.
Life unfolds according to rhythms and mysteries beyond our understanding. We arrive, we share our days, we leave our footprints upon one another's hearts, and eventually we pass beyond the visible shoreline.
And so I sit.
I remember.
I write.
Sometimes I write to bring those moments alive again.
Sometimes I write because memory itself is a form of gratitude.
And sometimes I write simply because it feels good to place one word after another and discover what my heart has known all along.
This morning I find myself thinking of something Wayne Dyer once said:
"Your purpose is not about what you do; it's about your beingness."
The older I become, the more wisdom I find in those words.
Much of our lives are spent making lists of things to do.
Call someone.
Fix something.
Finish a project.
Pay a bill.
Mow the lawn.
The list is endless.
Yet perhaps the deeper invitation is not a To-Do List at all.
Perhaps it is a To-Be List.
Be receptive.
Be grateful.
Be mindful.
Be kind.
Be patient.
Be present.
Be happy.
Simple words.
Simple practices.
Yet they may contain the secret to a life well lived.
The begonias outside are not striving to become anything other than begonias. The robin is not worried about tomorrow's song. The sunlight is not competing with yesterday's dawn.
Each simply is.
And perhaps there is wisdom in that.
Perhaps the measure of our lives is not found in how much we accomplish, but in how deeply we experience the moments we are given.
A cup of coffee.
A bird's song.
A flower catching the morning light.
A memory of old friends laughing on a raft in the middle of a lake.
These things may seem small.
Yet they are the very substance from which a good life is woven.
I take another sip of coffee.
Outside, the birdbath waits for its visitors.
The begonias glow in the sunlight.
The catbird complains about something only a catbird understands.
And a new day unfolds before me.
For all of us, regardless of where we are or what burdens we carry, perhaps the invitation of this morning is simply this:
Remember the people who helped shape your journey.
Honor the moments that made you who you are.
And then, with gratitude for what has been and hope for what may yet be, step fully into the day that is waiting for you.
Not merely as a human doing.
But as a human being.
"The miracle is not that we have memories of yesterday. The miracle is that we awaken to another morning and have the opportunity to live today."
~Wylddane
A new morning has arrived.
Early summer sunlight is flooding the yard outside the wee cottage, spilling across the grass and through the leaves with that particular generosity that belongs to June. The coffee is especially good this morning. Perhaps it always tastes better when the day is young and full of promise.
Outside my open window, a robin is singing its cheerful song. Somewhere nearby, an oriole flashes like a living ember among the trees. And then there is the catbird, offering its remarkable imitation of a feline complaint and causing me to smile as it always does.
My morning routine is simple and familiar.
The stereo is tuned to Classical California. Gentle music drifts through the cottage. I pour my first mug of coffee and savor that first sip that seems to announce the official beginning of the day. Before settling down to write, I step outside and water the potted plants. The begonias, like the one in the photograph, seem especially happy this morning, their leaves and blossoms catching the sunlight in ways that make them appear almost painted.
I make certain the birdbath is full of fresh water.
That small task always brings a quiet satisfaction. Before long, it will become one of the neighborhood's busiest watering holes. Robins, chickadees, orioles, nuthatches, and perhaps even a curious squirrel or two will stop by for a drink or a bath. It feels good to provide a small place of refreshment in the world.
Now I am back inside with a second mug of coffee, and my thoughts drift backward.
Perhaps it is because meteorological summer has arrived.
Perhaps it is because mornings have a way of opening doors to memory.
I find myself thinking about another lake, another summer, and another version of myself.
Long ago, on warm summer evenings, a group of us gathered at a friend's beach on the south end of the lake where I grew up. There was an anchored raft a short distance from shore. To us, it seemed like the center of the universe.
We would swim out to it, climb aboard, and spend hours there.
We dove into the water.
We watched the sun sink toward the trees.
We gossiped and laughed as only children can.
Bill.
Mike.
Terry.
Troy.
The names arrive like echoes carried across still water.
Those boys were my friends. My companions in those endless summers when we believed there would always be another June waiting just beyond the horizon.
Yet today they are gone.
Sometimes that realization still catches me by surprise.
How did I become the last one standing?
I do not know.
I suspect there are no answers that fully satisfy such questions.
Life unfolds according to rhythms and mysteries beyond our understanding. We arrive, we share our days, we leave our footprints upon one another's hearts, and eventually we pass beyond the visible shoreline.
And so I sit.
I remember.
I write.
Sometimes I write to bring those moments alive again.
Sometimes I write because memory itself is a form of gratitude.
And sometimes I write simply because it feels good to place one word after another and discover what my heart has known all along.
This morning I find myself thinking of something Wayne Dyer once said:
"Your purpose is not about what you do; it's about your beingness."
The older I become, the more wisdom I find in those words.
Much of our lives are spent making lists of things to do.
Call someone.
Fix something.
Finish a project.
Pay a bill.
Mow the lawn.
The list is endless.
Yet perhaps the deeper invitation is not a To-Do List at all.
Perhaps it is a To-Be List.
Be receptive.
Be grateful.
Be mindful.
Be kind.
Be patient.
Be present.
Be happy.
Simple words.
Simple practices.
Yet they may contain the secret to a life well lived.
The begonias outside are not striving to become anything other than begonias. The robin is not worried about tomorrow's song. The sunlight is not competing with yesterday's dawn.
Each simply is.
And perhaps there is wisdom in that.
Perhaps the measure of our lives is not found in how much we accomplish, but in how deeply we experience the moments we are given.
A cup of coffee.
A bird's song.
A flower catching the morning light.
A memory of old friends laughing on a raft in the middle of a lake.
These things may seem small.
Yet they are the very substance from which a good life is woven.
I take another sip of coffee.
Outside, the birdbath waits for its visitors.
The begonias glow in the sunlight.
The catbird complains about something only a catbird understands.
And a new day unfolds before me.
For all of us, regardless of where we are or what burdens we carry, perhaps the invitation of this morning is simply this:
Remember the people who helped shape your journey.
Honor the moments that made you who you are.
And then, with gratitude for what has been and hope for what may yet be, step fully into the day that is waiting for you.
Not merely as a human doing.
But as a human being.
"The miracle is not that we have memories of yesterday. The miracle is that we awaken to another morning and have the opportunity to live today."
~Wylddane
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