“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.”  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

The rain had begun sometime in the quiet hours before dawn.

Not with thunder or urgency, but with a soft insistence—a steady, silver whisper against rooftops and windowpanes, as if the sky itself had leaned close to the earth to tell a secret.

By the time the doors of Bean & Birch opened, the village of Lone Pine was wrapped in it.
​
Maren stood behind the counter, setting out fresh pastries—still warm, their buttery scent mingling with coffee and rain-damp wool. Lucy adjusted a vase of early pussy willows by the window, their soft gray catkins echoing the color of the sky beyond.

One by one, they came in from the mist.

Ethan, with Bear shaking rain from his thick coat just outside the door. Isabel tucked warmly inside his jacket.
Liam, boots damp, Mabel alert and bright-eyed despite the weather.
Erica, Sam, Toby, Martha, and Tom—each carrying with them the hush of the morning rain.

They settled into their usual places, mugs cradled, the windows fogging slightly from the warmth within.

For a while, no one said much.

The rain spoke for them—tap, tap, tap—soft against the glass.

It was Toby, of course, who finally broke the silence, leaning back in his chair with that familiar glint in his eye.

“You ever notice,” he said, “how a rain like this doesn’t just fall… it remembers?”

A few eyebrows lifted. A few smiles.

“Oh, here we go,” Erica murmured, though she leaned in.

Toby took a slow sip of his coffee, then began.

“The sky was the color of a dove’s wing,” he said, his voice softening, “a seamless canopy of pearl that held the world in a quiet, misty embrace…”
​
And as he spoke, the café seemed to fade just slightly, as though the rain itself was carrying them into another place.

The rain drifted more than it fell—silver-threaded, deliberate—kissing the tips of sleeping crocuses and the velvet moss along old stone walls.

March, in that place, was a season of whispers.

A man sat by a window, a cup of coffee warming his hands. Outside, a willow trailed its yellow-green fingers into puddles, each ripple catching the dim light like starlight in the day.

The rain tapped gently against the glass.

Not a demand—but an invitation.

A robin crossed the lawn, paused, and offered a single, clear note. Not defiance. Not complaint. Just… presence.

The man watched, and something in him slowed.

He stepped outside.

The air wrapped around him like cool silk, smelling of wet stone and waking earth. The garden had become a cathedral of mist—veils of gray drifting between birch trunks, softening edges, dissolving distance.

Everywhere he looked, there were small miracles.

A drop trembling on the tip of a snowdrop.

A spiderweb turned to diamonds.

The quiet, steady pulse beneath the soil—the unseen work of becoming.

He walked to an old stone bench and rested his hand upon it.

And there, beneath the hush of rain, he felt it.

Not with his ears—but somewhere deeper.

A rhythm.
A remembering.

As though the earth itself was saying: Not yet… but soon.

He stood there a long while, doing nothing at all.
​
Until--
The veil shifted.
A thinning.
A softening of gray into something brighter.

And then, like a promise finally spoken aloud, the light came.

Not harsh. Not sudden.

But spilling.

Golden.

Every drop became a lantern. Every branch shimmered. The air filled with the scent of warm earth rising, as though the world itself exhaled.

The robin burst into song—no longer a single note, but a full, jubilant chorus.

And the man… smiled.

Not because anything had changed.

But because everything had.

He lifted his face to the light and understood—without needing words—that the rain had not been an interruption.

It had been a blessing.
​
A remembering.
A quiet hand on the shoulder of the world, saying:
Wake gently. Your time is coming.

Toby fell silent.
For a moment, the only sound was the real rain against the windows of Bean & Birch.
No one spoke right away.

Maren wiped her hands on her apron, her eyes soft. Lucy reached over and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

Outside, the mist seemed to glow just a little brighter.

“Well,” Sam finally said, clearing his throat, “if that isn’t the truth of it.”

Ethan glanced out the window, Bear’s head resting against his knee, Isabel purring softly.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Feels like that kind of day.”

And in the warm, lamplit café—coffee steaming, rain falling, hearts quietly full—the village of Lone Pine listened as the world, just beyond the glass, began its slow and beautiful awakening.

* * * * * * * * * *

Sometime in the quiet hours of the morning, I woke to the sound of rain.

Not loud. Not urgent.

Just… there.

A soft, steady presence—like a lullaby played by the sky itself.

For a moment, I didn’t move. I simply listened.

And in that listening, something within me settled.
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Now, morning has come.

The sky beyond my window is slowly brightening, though the rain continues—fine, steady, patient. It traces quiet paths down the glass, each drop catching what little light there is and holding it, just for a moment.

The wee cottage feels especially tranquil this morning.

A pool of lamplight rests upon my desk, almost as though it were illuminating this small corner of the world on purpose. My mug of coffee steams beside me—rich, warm, deeply welcome.

And in the background, Ralph Vaughan Williams’ The Lark Ascending rises gently, as if it, too, were made of mist and morning light.

There is something about a March rain.

It does not arrive with the sharp authority of winter snow, nor the drama of a summer storm. It is… courteous. A soft breath. A quiet hand laid upon the shoulder of the earth.

It nourishes without demanding attention.

It invites without insisting.

It is, as John Updike so beautifully said,
“Rain is grace; rain is the sky condescending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life.”

And perhaps that is what we are meant to remember.

That not all change must be loud.

Not all transformation must be visible.

Sometimes, the most important work—the most meaningful becoming—happens quietly, beneath the surface, in moments that feel almost ordinary.

A gentle rain.
A quiet morning.
A cup of coffee.
A piece of music that seems to breathe with you.

These are not small things.

They are, in their own way, everything.

Today, like the rain, we are invited to slow down.
​
To breathe.
To allow.
To trust that something within us—like the earth beneath March’s gray skies—is waking, softening, preparing.

And so, I take another sip of coffee.

I gaze out at the rain-streaked window.

And I think, simply:
How beautiful this day is.
​
And so… I begin.

~Wylddane

​

“The wind does not ask us to believe — only to listen.
In the hush between breaths, the world remembers us back into itself.”  ~Wylddane

​The sky above Lone Pine was the color of soft ash when Ethan stepped onto the narrow trail behind the wee cottage. A faint dusting of overnight snow lay untouched across the woods, the air carrying that quiet, waiting hush that belonged only to winter mornings.

Bear trotted ahead, his thick husky coat dusted white. Isabel rode in Ethan’s stomach pack, peering over the edge like a small orange-and-white queen surveying her kingdom. High above, Ragnhilde traced slow circles against the pale sky before gliding into the trees.

They were not walking toward any destination. Some mornings asked only for motion.

The trail curved uphill, climbing a wooded bluff overlooking Stillwater Gleam. Oak and maple branches arched overhead, their bare limbs etched like charcoal against the lightening sky. Spruce and balsam whispered softly as the breeze stirred.

Then, as if stepping through an unseen threshold, they entered the grove.

The Norway pines rose impossibly tall — ancient columns reaching toward a sky hidden far above. There was no underbrush, no tangled thicket. Only wide trunks spaced like the pillars of an old cathedral, the ground beneath them soft with generations of fallen needles.

Bear slowed, ears pricked.

Ethan stopped.

The wind moved through the high branches, and the grove exhaled.

It was not a howl, not a rustle — but a deep, steady sigh. The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, rolling through the towering trees like breath through a sacred hall.

Isabel grew still.

Ragnhilde landed on a branch above them, her black feathers blending with the shadows.

For a long moment, none of them moved.
​
Ethan felt something settle inside him — not a thought, not a memory, but a recognition. As if the forest itself were reminding him of something he had once known without needing words.

Bear sat quietly at his side, gaze lifted toward the canopy. Even the raven made no sound.

The grove held them there.

Minutes passed — or perhaps only seconds. Time softened in that space, losing its sharp edges.

Finally, Ethan removed his gloves and rested his bare hand against one of the massive trunks. The bark was cold, solid, alive. He closed his eyes.

He had come into the woods looking for nothing in particular — perhaps only movement, perhaps distraction — but here, in the towering silence, he felt something return to him.

Not answers.
Presence.

When he opened his eyes, Bear rose and stretched. Isabel flicked her tail. Ragnhilde launched herself into the air, circling once above the grove before gliding toward the lake.

Ethan smiled.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Let’s go.”

They walked out of the cathedral of pines together, the sound of the wind following them like a blessing carried on breath.

* * * * * * * * * *

The mug of coffee warms my hands this morning as a cloudy winter day slowly gathers light beyond the window. The air outside is pale and hushed, and The Morgenstern Trio’s Piano Trio — Third Movement lingers softly in the room, each note suspended like a thought that refuses to hurry.

Some mornings do not begin with words. They begin with memory.

Today I find myself thinking of a winter afternoon long ago — walking through the woods with a faithful dog, stepping into a grove of old Norway pines so tall and ancient that the world felt suddenly vast and sacred. The wind moved through their needles in a gentle sigh, and for a moment everything else disappeared. No agenda. No striving. Only listening.

Jim Palmer writes:

“We abandoned our first love—the raw communing with life itself… forgetting that no building can house what moves galaxies.”
​
How easily we drift away from that first love — that simple, wordless communion with wind and soil and silence. We begin to believe that meaning lives somewhere outside us: in books, in opinions, in noise. Yet the deepest truths often return when we step into the quiet and allow ourselves to feel again.

And perhaps that is the invitation of this morning.

Another of Palmer’s reflections speaks of trusting the inner voice, of letting go of the need to construct a persona and instead opening to the rhythm and flow of life itself. I think that rhythm is always present — in the hush of snow, in the slow rise of daylight, in the lingering echo of piano notes touching the air.

Presence is not something we achieve.

It is something we remember.

The grove of pines — whether in memory or in story — becomes a kind of cathedral not because it is holy in the traditional sense, but because it allows us to return to ourselves without distance. The wind moves, and suddenly we are not observers of life but participants within it.

And so this day begins gently.
Coffee steaming.
Clouded light growing stronger beyond the glass.
Music lingering in the quiet spaces between thoughts.

Perhaps today is not about seeking enlightenment or building an identity around being wise or awakened. Perhaps it is simply about listening — to the wind in the trees, to the rhythm of breath, to that quiet inner voice that asks nothing more than our presence.

Because no building can hold what moves galaxies.
​
But sometimes… a grove of towering Norway pines can help us remember.

~Wylddane

My parents were married on a November day many years ago.  That December at Christmas...their very first Christmas together as a married couple, they bought this little bell to hang on their Christmas tree.  This wonderful little ornament has been on every family Christmas tree since then.

It hung on the tree of their first Christmas together.
It hung on the Christmas trees of the years when my sister, my brother and I were born.
It hung on the Christmas tree of the year of my sister's death.
It has hung Christmas trees of the years of school and graduations.
It has hung on Christmas trees during the years of my brother's and my marriages.
It hung on the Christmas tree the year I was divorced.
It hung on the Christmas tree that I came to terms with being gay.
It hung on the Christmas tree as my family absorbed this knowledge and move on with understanding and love.
It hung on the Christmas trees of the years that each of my three nieces were born..and was there for all of their Christmases until the grew up and moved away.
It hung on the Christmas tree, sadly, the year my father died.
It hung on the Christmas trees each and every year that followed as my mother endured the grief of losing her life partner.
It hung on the Christmas trees each and every year after I moved to California.
It hung on the Christmas trees each year as my three nieces got married and started their own families.
It hung on the Christmas trees of years of good times and of years that were less good.
It hung on Christmas trees that were the center of family get-togethers and the house was filled with joy, laughter and love.

Then, the last summer my mother was alive and while I was home visiting her...she gave me this ornament and asked that I continue to make sure it would be hung on my Christmas trees with memory and with love.  Mom had no major life threatening illness at the time...so I've often wondered if she knew within her soul that there would be no more Christmas trees upon which she would be hanging this little bell.  She died that December.

So each year since then it has hung on my Christmas trees.  It is carefully placed on a sturdy branch near the top of the tree each year in a ceremony of love, smiles and memories.

It has since then hung on my  Christmas tree the year of my sister-in-laws death.
It has hung on my Christmas tree each of the years my great nieces and nephews were born and entered life.
It hung on my Christmas tree the year my brother died.
It has hung on my Christmas trees all of the years of my chosen family get-togethers.
It has hung on all Christmas tree of all of our family lives.

So, you see, this little Christmas bell has had quite a history.  One can almost feel the glow of the memories it must harbor after all these Christmases.  It, strangely enough, no longer seems inanimate but rather it is a family member too...that is cherished and loved.

This year as I hung it on my Christmas tree I noticed how worn and old it now looks.  It no longer sparkles like it once did.  However I have to admit I am now too a little worn and old...and I no longer "sparkle" with youth as I once did.  The years have gone by so fast and it has been an incredible journey.

Someday in the future it is my hope that this tiny Christmas tree bell will be hung on someones Christmas tree with the same love and reverie with which it has graced all of our trees.

God bless and Merry Christmas!

Sunday morning in Tracy, CA I was the first one awake.  I walked downstairs to the kitchen, poured myself a cup of coffee, stepped outside to the patio table...and sipped coffee and enjoyed the start of the new day.  Unfortunately that magic moment did not last too long for by mistake I'd set off the house alarm!!!  ;-)