The ornament hung gently from a low pine branch, its crystal-clear surface catching the morning light like a prism. Inside, the snowy forest scene mirrored the world around it—evergreens dusted in white, the hush of winter settling over the yard. It was Thanksgiving morning, and the yard outside the old family home was quiet, save for the crunch of boots and the distant laughter of family arriving.

That ornament had been placed there by his father, who always insisted that beauty belonged outdoors as much as in. It became a tradition—one ornament, one branch, one moment of stillness before the day began. Inside the house, the warmth of cinnamon and roasted turkey filled the air. The table was already set, mismatched plates and cloth napkins folded with care. His mother hummed as she basted the bird, and he and his brother  argued over who got the wishbone.

Years passed. The yard changed. The house changed. He changed. But the memory of that ornament—clear as glass, quiet as snow—remained. Later Thanksgivings were spent in city apartments, mountain cabins, and once, on a beach with friends who had become family. There were years of laughter, years of longing, and years of rediscovery. But always, the spirit of that ornament returned: a reminder of stillness, of connection, of the magic tucked inside ordinary moments.

* * * * * * * * * *

It’s a quiet morning in the wee cottage. The windows glow with the soft light of early winter, and the hush outside feels like a held breath. Klami’s Nocturne drifts through the rooms like a gentle snowfall, each note a whisper of calm. The coffee is hot, fragrant, grounding. It warms the hands and the heart.

In this moment, there is no rush. No list. No momentum pulling forward. Just presence.

Eckhart Tolle writes, “To stay present in everyday life, it helps to be deeply rooted within yourself; otherwise, the mind, which has incredible momentum, will drag you along like a wild river.” And how true that feels now. The world is full of currents—news, plans, worries, memories. But here, in this quiet, we find the anchor. We root ourselves not in the noise, but in the breath, the warmth, the music, the scent of coffee.
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To be deeply rooted is not to resist the river, but to stand firm on the riverbank. To watch the flow and know you are not it. You are the stillness beneath it. The ornament in the snow. The tree that holds it. The memory that lives on.

"In the stillness of the morning, the soul remembers."   ~Anon

~Wylddane

Yesterday was one of those rare days when memories met memory updates—a mingling of the past and the present, both vivid and tender. It was my high school class reunion, an anniversary of a time so far back that I hesitate to count the years. You know, I am not a shy person, but I am one who often sits back, content to observe. There is a great value in this. The older I become, the more willingly—perhaps even happily—I find myself in that role.

There were faces I recognized immediately, as if no years had passed, though the lines and silver threads of time now traced their way across them. Older, yes. Wiser? Perhaps. In some of those faces, I felt the tug to go over, to say, “How are you?” or “Please, tell me your story.” But mostly, I let my eyes wander the room, taking in the hum of conversation, the bursts of laughter, the occasional silence between words. The air was thick with life stories, each person a book still being written.

One wall held the youthful yearbook portraits of those who had already gone ahead—about a third of us now. The images were frozen in their springtime, forever young, untouched by the slow sculpting of the years. It hurt to look at them, not because they were gone, but because I will never know the final chapters of their stories.

I was grateful for the friends I still see at our monthly gatherings—bonds formed long ago that remain unshaken. With them, conversation is effortless; the years between feel like a blink. And yet, after about an hour and a half, I felt the familiar pull to slip away quietly. It felt good to get in the car and “sail away.”

On my drive home, I realized that this type of thing…was in reality not my type of thing. I so deeply appreciate the people who took time and energy to put this event together—I thank them sincerely. But…

A new day starts. Yesterday is in the rearview mirror.

This morning’s coffee garden walk was much like the last several days—warm, with the dew point inching toward the uncomfortable range. As I walked, listening to nature waking up, watching the light shift across leaves and petals, my thoughts turned reflective. Fragments of yesterday drifted through my mind, like leaves floating on a river’s surface. Yet this new day was calling me.

Stories. Stories in that room yesterday. Stories waiting to be made today. May all these stories be woven into the great fabric of life—threads of joy, loss, love, and hope—each one essential, each one part of the whole.

Standing yesterday at the boat landing on the Chippewa River in Bruce, Wisconsin, I understood this truth:
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“The river does not cling to what has passed, yet it carries all stories forward.”

~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.
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~Wylddane

I live in the northwoods now. It is July, and the mornings are lush with green growth and dew-slicked blossoms. My garden has become a quiet sanctuary, a place where each early morning begins with a ritual: a slow walk among the flowers, coffee mug in hand, listening to birdsong, exchanging nods with my faithful cottontail rabbit companion, and sometimes sharing the silence with the neighbor's curious visiting cat. It is not a ceremony in any formal sense—but in my heart, it is sacred. It is my meditation.

To me, meditation is a form of prayer—a communion with the quiet, with the natural world, with the oneness that binds all things. It's not about chanting or mantras or crossing your legs just so. It’s about presence. It’s about listening.

This morning, it is raining. No garden walk. No sunrise slanting through the oak trees. But in the absence of my usual rhythm, I found myself gazing at an image I had tucked away—a photo I took years ago in Pacifica, California. The roar of the Pacific lives in this image. I can almost feel the salt mist on my skin, the cool wind threading through my jacket.

The photo is from where Calera Creek empties into the Pacific Ocean at Rockaway Beach. It stirs a whole world of memory. Two walks were my favorite during those years: the first, from Sharp Park Pier to Mori Point and then up and over that wild headland, watching waves crash against cliffs as the fog shifted like a ghost; the second, through the Calera Creek wetlands to the very place this photo captures, where earth meets ocean in a drama of sound and light.

A few steps into either walk, and my thoughts would begin to dissolve. Worries lifted like morning fog. I became one with the moment, my companions the rhythmic crash of surf, the cry of gulls, the swirl of wind, sky, and wave. That, too, was meditation. That, too, was prayer.

“Meditation is a practice that involves techniques to train attention and awareness. It aims to achieve a mentally clear and emotionally calm state.”  ~Unknown

“Mindfulness meditation involves being present and aware of thoughts and feelings without judgment.”  ~Unknown

These definitions feel clinical, and yet they resonate. They name what I’ve long known in my bones. Whether I’m walking a beach in Pacifica or strolling a rain-kissed path in my northwoods garden, meditation opens a door to grace. It clears the static. It returns me to now.

Even on this rainy morning, with no walk possible, I look into that photograph and I’m transported. The roar of the waves returns. My mind stills. I am there—and here. The boundaries blur. My spirit, attuned once more to nature's voice, listens to the whisper of memory, the echo of timeless presence.
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Meditation, like memory, is a bridge. It brings us home.

“Silence is not the absence of something but the presence of everything.”
~Gordon Hempton

~Wylddane

On a hot summer afternoon sometime around 1961, three boys stood together on a gravel backroad in rural Wisconsin. They were thirteen—young enough to believe in endless possibility, old enough to begin wondering what the future might hold. One wore glasses and had dark hair; the other two—one blonde, one brown-haired—stood beside him, their Schwinn bikes gleaming red, green, and blue in the dappled shade of a tree-lined lane. The world stretched out before them, wild and unwritten.

Their names were Mike, Terry, and John. That summer was a symphony of freedom—choruses of laughter, the click of gears, and the crunch of gravel beneath rubber tires. They wandered the sun-warmed backroads, far from the watchful eyes of parents and the weight of expectations. One golden afternoon, they paused beneath the sheltering trees and let their imaginations drift toward the future. The year 2000 loomed like a shimmering mirage on the far horizon. They did the math, figuring how old they'd be by then. They laughed, half in disbelief, at the thought of being in their fifties. What would they be? Who would they become?

Terry, quiet and sure, thought he might be a farmer like his father. Mike was uncertain, content in the moment. And me? I said I wanted to go to college, to see the world beyond the county line. And I did. I went. I ended up in northern California. Terry stayed close to the land that raised him, in Wisconsin. Mike built his life in Indiana.

Memories are peculiar creatures. Some are always near, like old friends. Others wait in the shadows, slipping forward unbidden. Lately, this one—this memory of that summer day—has found me often. Perhaps it’s the rhythm of the rain outside, or perhaps it’s the long view of a life mostly lived. I miss them—my friends. And I miss the boy I once was. The one with sun on his face, wind in his hair, and the whole world waiting.
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Now, so many years later, only one of us remains. Just me. Remembering. And on this soft, rainy day, it feels like no time has passed at all. As if three boys are still standing on a shaded road, bikes at their sides, dreaming aloud.
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“Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.”   ~Dr. Seuss

~Wylddane

Years ago, while walking through a quiet park in Pacifica, California—a place where the sea breeze meets the scent of eucalyptus and the sky seems always in motion—I paused to admire a simple white flower. I didn’t know its name then, and I still don’t. But something about it spoke to me. Perhaps it was the way it stood so gently in its place, delicate yet certain. I took a picture.

Later, I edited that image, shaping it into something new—something dreamlike. The flower now bloomed within a teardrop of glass, suspended like a raindrop catching light. Without giving it a formal name, I began calling it Captured Memories. It felt right. It still does.

This morning, I came across a quote that felt like a whisper from the past:

“Taking an image, freezing a moment, reveals how rich reality truly is.”  ~Anonymous

And indeed, is it not fascinating how a single image—a photograph, a painting, a glimpse—can unlock the door to a time long past? Suddenly we are there again. The sounds return, the light shifts back into its remembered angles, and for a moment, we are standing in that moment once more. The world hasn’t changed—we have. And yet, through the image, something stirs. Something eternal.

Sometimes, even more magically, we look at an image of a place we’ve never been, or a time before our own, and yet something in our spirit recognizes it. It touches a chord. Is it memory, or is it something deeper?

Some might dismiss it as imagination or sentimentality. But I call it magic. I call it the fabric of our lives.

Each picture is a tapestry thread—woven of light and shadow, scent and sound, emotion and breath. These are the moments that make us. These are the glimpses of joy and quiet reflection, of laughter caught mid-air, of eyes that once gazed back at us with love.

When I gaze at Captured Memories, I do not just see a flower in a park. I feel the air of that morning. I remember the walk. I remember who I was. And for a moment, I feel the quiet joy of being held in that time again.

But then, the gaze shifts—to now. The present. And I ask myself: What am I capturing today? What moments am I creating that may one day bloom inside a bubble of memory or a glistening photograph? Will these moments be rich with laughter? With peace? With love?

That, I realize, is entirely up to me.

Because today—this very moment—is tomorrow’s memory in the making. And if I live it well, with presence and gratitude, then it too will one day be captured… not just in images, but in the soul.
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"Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us."  ~Oscar Wilde

~Wylddane

​When the Red-Winged Blackbird Sings

Spring always seems to come slow to the northwoods. It's a season that arrives not with a trumpet’s blare but with a whisper. Subtle. Steady. At times, it feels like winter's grip will never quite loosen, like the gray and brown of a thawing world might stretch on forever. But then, one morning, the ice is thinner, the snow patches smaller, and something stirs in the air. A change, almost imperceptible, but real.

Perhaps spring comes exactly when it’s supposed to.

As I gaze at this image—a stream cutting through bare and brambled brush under a softly painted sky—I can almost hear it. That first song. The one that cracks open the silence like sunlight spilling across a frost-covered field.

The red-winged blackbird.

Its song is not just a sound—it's an arrival, a proclamation. It tells me that winter has begun to retreat and the world is waking up again.

When I was young, I was fortunate to grow up by a lake. My parents’ home sat just above the shoreline, its windows catching the light off the water in every season. We had a boat, and in the shoulder days of spring—when the ice was still receding and the world looked bare, brown, almost sterile—we would stand outside and watch, listen, and wait. Because even in that seeming emptiness, life was everywhere.

The red-winged blackbirds returned each year with the wood ducks, the mallards, the geese, the coots. A feathered procession of the returning wild. But the blackbirds—with their unmistakable crimson epaulets—were like punctuation marks on the still-sleepy sentence of spring. Their song didn’t just fill the air; it announced something eternal. Something larger than any one season, any one life.

Now, many years later, I still listen for that song. And each time I hear it—whether in memory or in real time—I feel a kind of peace settle over me. It is a peace that transcends the hectic, often chaotic machinations of human life. While we scramble and strive and worry, nature carries on. Governed not by deadlines or ambition but by rhythm, instinct, and trust.

Is that not a metaphysical thing? That deep and abiding trust that the earth will warm, the waters will flow, and the red-winged blackbird will return?

There is solace in this. There is hope in this. There is a soft and powerful invitation to accept the eternal gift of cycles, of renewal, of return.

And so I listen. I listen not only with my ears but with my soul.

I love the song of the red-winged blackbird.

~Wylddane

Rick's garden is more than a place; it is a sanctuary, an oasis nestled in the heart of California’s Central Valley. It is a refuge where peace and delight intertwine, where time slows, and where the soul finds respite.

Mornings in Rick’s garden begin with a cup of coffee, steam curling into the cool air as the first golden rays of sunlight filter through the leaves, dappling the ground in soft, shifting patterns. The scent of damp earth and blooming roses mingles with the rich aroma of the coffee, awakening the senses. Finches greet the dawn with their songs, their delicate notes carried on the gentle breeze, blending harmoniously with the rustling of leaves and the occasional distant hum of a bee drifting lazily from flower to flower.

Afternoons unfold leisurely. A glass of crisp wine cools my fingertips as I sit beneath the shade of an arbor draped in flowering vines. The air is thick with the perfume of roses—velvety petals bursting in hues of crimson, pink, and apricot. The sweetness of sun-warmed fruit lingers on the tongue, a perfect complement to the laughter of dear friends gathered nearby. Conversations meander like a slow-moving stream, filled with reflections, dreams, and gentle teasing, punctuated by the clinking of glasses raised in celebration of the simple joys of life.

Evenings in Rick’s garden carry a different kind of magic. The setting sun casts long shadows, its light turning everything to gold. The air cools, yet the warmth of shared stories and lingering embraces remains. The scent of night-blooming flowers drifts through the air, mingling with the fading traces of the day’s laughter.

It is in these moments, these memories, that I gather hope. In a world filled with uncertainty and chaos, I choose to focus on this—a rose captured in a photograph, a reminder of love, of chosen family, of the profound beauty found in the simplest of things. When I gaze at that image, I am centered. My attention shifts from the horrors of the world to its miracles. And metaphysically, I understand: what we focus on expands. So I choose to focus on these memories, on the love that grows, on the gentle laughter that sustains. I choose to nurture hope, just as Rick’s garden nurtures the roses, the friendships, and the spirit of all who step within its embrace.
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~Wylddane

When I lived in Pacifica, CA, I always took a New Year's Day walk along the beach...it was a peaceful moment of connection with nature and a time of reflection. The coastal sunset, with the sound of the waves meeting the shore and the sky turning shades of gold and purple, was a perfect setting in which to pause, let go of the past year, and absorb the quiet energy of a new beginning. There’s something about the ocean, always in motion yet eternally constant, that mirrors our own lives: ever-changing but anchored in a rhythm of renewal. Walking along the shore as the sun dips below the horizon on New Year’s Day is a beautiful way to ground ourselves, to feel both the weight and freedom of time passing, and to recognize that each day holds the potential for something new and meaningful. The memory of those sunsets carry a sense of peace and hope that we can tap into whenever we need it.

~Wylddane