"To be nobody but yourself—in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else—means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting."
~E.E. Cummings

This morning begins quietly.

A mug of coffee warms my hands. Outside the window, a wren fills the damp June air with a song far larger than its tiny body should be capable of producing. Inside the wee cottage, the gentle notes of a piano concerto drift from room to room. Sunlight touches the flowers on the deck, illuminating their petals until they seem almost lit from within.

June has always felt like a month of blossoming.

Gardens overflow with color. Wildflowers line roadsides and meadows. Trees wear their fullest green.

Everywhere the natural world seems to declare that hiding is over and becoming has begun.

Perhaps that is why Pride Month belongs so naturally to June.

Both flowers and Pride tell the same story.

A seed buried in darkness eventually reaches for the light. A flower unfolds into its truest form. A human being does much the same.

For centuries, flowers carried messages that people could not safely speak aloud. In the Victorian "Language of Flowers," emotions and identities were hidden within bouquets. Lavender became a subtle symbol of queer identity and belonging. Violets carried echoes of Sappho and the enduring history of love between women. Today rainbow-colored blossoms celebrate the beautiful diversity of the LGBTQ+ community.

Flowers have always understood something that humanity sometimes forgets: diversity is not a flaw in creation. It is the very source of its beauty.

As I sip my coffee this morning, I find myself thinking about history.

When Pride Month is discussed, our thoughts naturally turn to Stonewall in June of 1969. And rightly so. The courage shown there changed history. Yet here in Wisconsin—this quiet, beautiful state of lakes, forests, farms, and small towns—remarkable acts of courage occurred even earlier.

In June of 1960, Elroy Schulz died following a police raid in Milwaukee. His death was met not with justice but with cruelty. The official response reflected a society that believed some lives mattered less than others. It is difficult to read that history today without feeling both sadness and anger.

Yet grief has a way of planting seeds.

Just over a year later, on August 5, 1961, those seeds blossomed into resistance at Milwaukee's Black Nite bar. When a group of men attempted to terrorize one of the city's few safe gathering places for LGBTQ+ people, they encountered something unexpected.

People who refused to surrender.

Among them was Josie Carter, a courageous gender-nonconforming queen of color whose name deserves to be remembered. When violence arrived at the door, she and others stood their ground. They defended their community, their dignity, and their right simply to exist.

Eight years before Stonewall, a group of ordinary people in Wisconsin demonstrated an extraordinary truth:

There comes a time when fear must step aside and courage must take its place.

The story did not end there.

Wisconsin would later become the first state in the nation to enact comprehensive protections against discrimination based on sexual orientation. Progress that many assume began elsewhere was often being quietly built here, one brave act at a time.

History is like that.

It is easy to believe that change arrives through famous speeches, celebrated leaders, or moments preserved in textbooks. But more often it begins with ordinary people making extraordinary decisions. A person who speaks when silence would be safer. A neighbor who chooses compassion over prejudice. A community that refuses to abandon its most vulnerable members.

That lesson belongs to everyone.

Not just LGBTQ+ people.

Not just Americans.

Everyone.

Because every generation faces moments when it must decide what kind of people it wishes to be.

Every generation encounters fear disguised as certainty, prejudice disguised as tradition, and cruelty disguised as strength.

And every generation needs people willing to step forward.

As I listen to the wren singing outside my window, I am reminded that courage is rarely loud at first. Often it begins as a small voice. A quiet conviction. A simple refusal to become less than who you are.

Eventually that voice becomes a song.

A movement.

A community.

A better future.

The flower blooming outside does not ask permission to unfold. The wren does not apologize for its song.

The June morning does not seek approval before filling the world with light.

Perhaps there is wisdom in that.

Perhaps the lesson of Pride Month is not only that we should celebrate those who came before us, though we absolutely should.

Perhaps it is also a reminder that every human being deserves the freedom to bloom into their authentic self.

And perhaps the lesson history offers us this morning is that progress has always depended upon ordinary people choosing courage over fear, kindness over hatred, and truth over silence.

The names may change. The challenges may change.

The lesson never does.

So I finish my coffee.

The piano continues its gentle melody. The wren continues to sing. The flowers continue to bloom.

And I find myself grateful for those who stood up when standing up was dangerous.

Because of them, the garden is larger now.
Because of them, more voices are singing.
Because of them, more people are free to bloom.
​
And that is something worth celebrating—not only this June morning, but every morning.

~Wylddane

“Be the lightning in a thunderstorm. Fierce, bright, and unforgettable.”
~Unknown

At four o’clock this morning, the sky spoke.

Not gently. Not with a distant murmur on the horizon or a soft patter against the roof. A single, tremendous clap of thunder shattered the silence and shook the wee cottage awake. One moment there was sleep, deep and dream-filled; the next, there was that ancient voice rolling through the darkness, reminding me that there are forces in this world far older and larger than my own small concerns.

The weather forecast had promised storms later in the day. Nature, however, often keeps its own schedule.

For a few moments I lay beneath the covers listening. Rain swept across the roof. Another rumble moved through the clouds. Lightning flickered beyond the curtains. And there, tucked safely inside, I felt that curious mixture of vulnerability and comfort that only a nighttime storm can bring.

There is something primal about thunder in the dark.

During the day, storms compete with traffic, conversations, errands, and distractions. At night, they arrive on an empty stage. The sleeping world falls silent, and thunder becomes the only voice. Rain becomes the only song.

Ancient peoples understood this feeling. The Romans believed that thunder after sunset belonged not to Jupiter, lord of the daylight sky, but to Summanus, the mysterious god of nocturnal storms and hidden realms. Many Indigenous traditions tell of the Thunderbird, a powerful spirit whose wings create thunder and whose presence brings both protection and renewal. In old Slavic folklore, storm-filled nights were sometimes viewed as moments when the veil between worlds grew thin and dreams carried unusual significance.

Whether we understand these stories as mythology or metaphor, they all point toward the same truth: storms have always awakened something deep within us.

Perhaps it is because they mirror our own lives.

We all experience seasons when emotions gather like dark clouds. Worries accumulate. Grief lingers. Old disappointments drift through our thoughts. We try to carry them quietly, but eventually something must break. Something must rain. Something must release.

The storm knows this.

Thunder is not destruction alone. It is release. Rain is not merely disruption. It is renewal.

And when the storm has spent itself, the world often emerges cleaner than before.

This morning, as I sit at my desk with a fresh mug of coffee, the violence of the storm has passed. Outside my window, only a steady drizzle remains. The garden glistens beneath a gray sky. The iris blossoms, their purple petals jeweled with raindrops, seem less like flowers and more like small pieces of dawn waiting patiently for the sun.

Inside, a lamp casts a warm pool of light across the room. Classical music drifts softly through the cottage.

The coffee tastes especially good.
The world feels hushed.

And perhaps that is one of the gifts of a night storm.

It strips away the noise of yesterday. It washes the air. It reminds us that turmoil is often temporary and that peace frequently arrives not by avoiding the storm but by allowing it to pass through.

That thought brings me to words from Dr. Wayne Dyer:

“When you are practicing kindness, peace shows up right on schedule. When you are at peace with yourself and your world, you know that you are a worthy recipient of all that comes your way. ... Make it your own special mission to be kind to others each day at least once and to extend the same privilege to yourself as much as possible.”

Perhaps kindness is its own kind of weather.

Not dramatic like thunder. Not brilliant like lightning. More like the gentle rain that follows—the quiet grace that nourishes the world after the skies have finished shouting.

Today may bring more storms. The forecast suggests it might. Some may arrive in clouds and lightning.

Others may appear in the ordinary challenges of daily life.

Yet this morning offers a gentle reminder: storms do not last forever.

The thunder moves on.
The rain softens.
The dawn arrives.

And in the quiet that follows, we are given another opportunity to be kind, to trust, to begin again.

So on this dark, drizzly morning, with classical music playing softly and another cup of coffee waiting nearby, I find myself grateful for the storm that woke me.

Not because it disturbed my sleep.
​
But because it reminded me that even the fiercest nights eventually give way to a gentler sky. And sometimes, in the stillness that follows, peace shows up right on schedule.

~Wylddane

"Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others."  ~Cicero

This morning the rain arrived.

Not a dramatic storm with thunder and lightning, but the kind of rain the earth quietly hopes for—a steady, soaking rain that settles into the soil and lingers among the roots. After days of unusually warm weather, the world outside the wee cottage seems to be breathing a sigh of relief.

The window beside my desk is open. A cool, damp breeze drifts through the room, carrying with it the scent of wet leaves, pine needles, and fresh earth. Somewhere beyond the trees, rainwater gathers in puddles and runs softly through the grass.

Inside, classical music fills these humble rooms. A violin sings from the stereo. A mug of coffee rests beside me, still warm in my hands.

And outside, a tiny wren fills the morning with music.

My parents always called them Jenny Wrens. Whether this energetic little singer is truly a house wren or another variety, I cannot say with certainty. What I do know is that for such a small bird, it possesses an astonishing voice. Its song spills into the rainy air with a confidence entirely disproportionate to its size.

It seems impossible that so much music could emerge from something weighing only a fraction of an ounce.

Yet perhaps that is precisely why the wren has inspired stories for centuries.

Ancient legends tell of a contest among the birds to determine who would become king. The eagle soared higher than all the others, climbing into the heavens on mighty wings. But hidden among the eagle's feathers rode the clever little wren. When the eagle could fly no farther, the wren leapt upward, gaining a few precious feet and winning the crown.

In Celtic lands, the wren was known as the druid bird. Its songs and movements were believed to contain messages and prophecies. People listened carefully, convinced that wisdom often arrived in small forms and unexpected voices.

There is something deeply comforting about that idea.

We live in a world that often celebrates size, volume, influence, and power. We are encouraged to believe that significance must be grand and visible.

Yet the wren suggests otherwise.

A tiny bird can fill an entire forest with song.
A simple kindness can alter someone's day.
A quiet word can change a life.
A single moment of gratitude can transform an ordinary morning into something sacred.

For a while, the wren falls silent.

I hear only the rain moving through the trees and the gentle voice of the violin. The breeze enters through the open window, cool against my skin.

I take another sip of coffee.

And into that stillness comes a thought from Wayne Dyer:

"Rather than asking for more—which implies shortages—focus on what you have and how thankful you are."

As I sit here, those words feel less like advice and more like truth.

The rain.
The trees.
The music.
The coffee.
The cool air.
The gift of another day.

None of it extraordinary.

Yet together, it feels like abundance.

Perhaps gratitude is not the act of counting blessings as much as it is noticing them.

The world has not become richer in this moment. Nothing new has arrived.

I have simply become aware of what was already here.

And just then, as if on cue, the wren begins singing again.

Its bright voice tumbles through the rain-washed morning, cheerful and unrestrained.

The little king of the forest has returned to his throne.

Soon enough, I will refill my coffee mug. Soon enough, there will be errands, chores, emails, and all the ordinary responsibilities that make up a day.

But not yet.

For now, I am content to sit quietly beside an open window.

To listen.
To breathe.
To be grateful.
​
And to let the song of a tiny wren remind me that abundance is often measured not by how much we possess, but by how deeply we notice.

~Wylddane

"The soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears."  ~Native American Proverb

The wild irises have begun to bloom.

This morning, their violet petals catch the sunlight outside my window, glowing against the fresh greens of early summer. The day is bright and clear. Birds fill the air with song. Somewhere beyond the garden, a robin offers its cheerful commentary on the morning, while another unseen singer answers from the trees.

Inside the wee cottage, classical music drifts softly through the rooms.

The coffee tastes especially good today.

Before settling down to write, I completed a few small chores around the house—the ordinary rituals that quietly stitch a day together. A plant watered. A room straightened. A task crossed from the list. Nothing remarkable, yet somehow satisfying. Small acts of care remind us that life is often built not from grand moments but from countless simple ones.

Now I pause.

I take my mug and sit by the window.

And I reflect.

The iris has long been a symbol of hope and renewal. Its very name comes from Iris, the ancient Greek messenger goddess who traveled along rainbows, linking heaven and earth. Looking at these blooms, I can understand why. Their colors seem almost impossible—as though a fragment of sky descended to rest among the grasses.

The flower itself carries a quiet symbolism. Three petals rise upward. Three fall gracefully toward the earth. Some see in this design a reflection of mind, body, and spirit. Others see past, present, and future. Perhaps it is all of these things. Perhaps nature rarely limits itself to a single meaning.

The iris simply blooms and allows us to discover what we need.

This morning, I find myself returning to a quote by A. J. Balfour:

"What a desolate place would be a world without a flower! It would be like a face without a smile or a feast without a welcome. Are not flowers the stars of the earth?"

Indeed they are.

And yet flowers teach us something more than beauty.

They teach us about presence.

The iris does not bloom forever. It does not worry about how long its petals will last. It does not mourn the blossoms that came before nor fear the season that will follow. It simply unfolds itself completely to the sunlight it has been given.

Perhaps there is wisdom in that.

As I sit here, listening to the music and watching the morning gather itself around the cottage, I become aware once again of how precious every day truly is.

Each day is a gift.
Each moment is a gift.

Once again, I stand at the edge of this moment.

I stand at the edge of this morning.

I stand at the edge of this day.

And in some mysterious way, I stand at the edge of all of time.

There are seasons in life when we learn how to welcome. We welcome new friendships, new adventures, new joys, new beginnings.

There are other seasons when we quietly begin learning something harder.

We begin learning how to let go.

Not abruptly.
Not completely.
But gently.
With gratitude.
With love.
With the understanding that some of the most important things we ever say are not spoken aloud at all.

Sometimes goodbye is not a word.
Sometimes it is a kindness offered.

A hand held.
A memory shared.
A laugh remembered.
A silent moment spent beside someone we cherish.

Sometimes goodbye is simply another way of saying, Thank you for walking this part of the journey with me.

The wild iris understands this, I think.

It blooms magnificently knowing its season is brief.

And yet it blooms anyway.

Fully.
Fearlessly.
Beautifully.

Perhaps that is what we are called to do as well.

So this day begins.

The sunlight brightens the garden.
The birds continue their songs.
The music drifts from room to room.
The iris lifts its violet face toward the sky.

And I take another sip of coffee, grateful for this morning, grateful for this day, grateful for every soul who has helped make this life richer, kinder, and more beautiful than it would have been otherwise.

For now, that is enough.

And perhaps, on a morning like this, it is everything. 🍃☕🌿💜

~Wylddane

"There is only one corner of the universe you can be certain of improving, and that's your own self."
~Aldous Huxley

The city of Vespera was a place of clocks.

Clock towers marked the hours. Clockmakers were respected artisans. Time governed the factories, the markets, the churches, and the lives of its citizens.

It was also a city of secrets.

In the spring of 1926, Elias Moreau kept many of them.

At thirty-two, he was regarded as one of the finest clockmakers in the region. His small workshop occupied a narrow lane behind the cathedral square. By day he repaired pocket watches and grandfather clocks. By night he sat beside oil lamps, restoring ancient mechanisms whose creators had long since vanished into history.

He was handsome in a quiet way—dark-haired, thoughtful, with steady hands and eyes that always seemed to be searching for something beyond what others could see.

The city knew him as a craftsman.

The city did not know the rest.

For in Vespera, men like Elias learned early that certain truths were safer left unspoken.

So he lived carefully.

Alone.

Or at least he pretended to.

Only a few people knew that the violinist who often lingered in his workshop after concerts was more than a friend.

Julien knew.

And Elias knew.

That was enough.

Or so they told themselves.

One rainy afternoon the cathedral dean arrived carrying a sealed letter.

"The great mechanism has failed," the dean said gravely.

"The astronomic clock?"

"The very one."

Elias felt his breath catch.

The cathedral clock was legendary.

Built nearly three centuries earlier, it filled an entire chamber beneath the bell tower. Brass gears taller than a man rotated with celestial precision. Mechanical saints marched across hidden platforms. Stars, moons, and planets danced through elaborate cycles.

It was considered one of the wonders of the city.

And it had stopped.

The dean placed a key upon the workbench.

"We need you."

Three days later Elias climbed the narrow spiral stairs into the cathedral's hidden heart.

Dust filled the air.

Sunlight filtered through stained glass overhead.

And there, silent and motionless, stood the mechanism.

For hours he studied its gears.

For days he disassembled and repaired.

Then he noticed something peculiar.

A symbol.

Tiny.

Nearly invisible.

Carved into the underside of a brass wheel.

Two intertwined lilies.

Not unusual in itself.

Except the design appeared again.

And again.
And again.
Always hidden.
Always deliberate.

Curiosity became obsession.

He searched the archives.
Examined old blueprints.
Read forgotten journals.

And slowly a story emerged.

The cathedral's architect had been a man named Luca Bellini.

A brilliant designer.
An eccentric artist.
A mystery.

Among Bellini's surviving papers Elias discovered coded sketches. Marginal notes. Strange annotations disguised as measurements.

And finally a letter.
Not addressed.
Never sent.

Its paper had yellowed with age.
Its ink had faded.

But the meaning remained.

My beloved Matteo,

They may command stone and glass, but they cannot command what lives within the soul.

If they forbid us sunlight, I shall hide it in color.
If they forbid us music, I shall hide it in geometry.
If they forbid our names, I shall place them in the clockwork of eternity.

Elias stared at the words until his vision blurred.

The architect had been like him.

Centuries earlier.

The lilies represented two men.

The measurements concealed initials.

The clock itself was a monument to a love no history book had ever recorded.

Yet there was more.

Far more.

As he continued restoring the mechanism, he discovered Bellini had orchestrated something extraordinary.

The gears controlled more than time.

They controlled light.

Each wheel turned hidden mirrors.

Each mirror altered the angle at which the evening sun passed through the cathedral's western windows.

The entire mechanism was a concerto of glass and motion.

A performance.

One that had not played properly for decades.

Elias knew what restoring it would reveal.

And he knew the risk.

The authorities admired the cathedral.

They would not admire Bellini's secret.

For several nights he wrestled with the decision.

One evening Julien found him alone in the tower.

"You've already decided," Julien said gently.

"No."

"You have."

Elias smiled sadly.

"How can you tell?"

"Because you're afraid."

The words lingered.

Then Julien took his hand.

Only for a moment.

Only because no one could see.

"Some things deserve sunlight," he whispered.

The final repair took place on the last evening of June.

Clouds drifted across the western sky.

The square below filled with citizens eager to witness the clock's return.

The bells began to ring.

Gears turned.

Levers moved.

Ancient brass awakened.

Then the sun emerged.

Golden light entered the cathedral.

Passed through hidden mirrors.

Through stained glass.

Through centuries.

Suddenly a river of color exploded across the square.

Ruby.
Amber.
Sapphire.
Emerald.
Violet.

A living rainbow spilled over cobblestones, fountains, shopfronts, and astonished faces.

The crowd gasped.

Artists dropped their sketchbooks.

Children laughed and ran through the colors.

Musicians stood speechless.

And scattered throughout the square were people who had spent their entire lives hiding parts of themselves.

They looked up.
Then at one another.
Then back at the light.

No proclamation was spoken.
No banners were raised.
No speeches were given.

Yet something passed among them all.

A recognition.
A remembrance.
A quiet certainty that they were not alone.

Above them, unseen in the tower, Elias and Julien stood together.

The colors touched the cathedral walls.
Touched the city.
Touched history.

And for one perfect moment, the hidden became visible.

Not exposed.
Not condemned.
Simply illuminated.

Far below, the rainbow drifted across the square like a blessing from another century.

And somewhere beyond time, perhaps Luca Bellini and Matteo smiled.

​* * * * * * * * * *

Rain drifts softly through the northwoods this morning.

Not a storm. Not even a steady rain. Just gentle showers moving through the trees beneath a sky painted in shades of silver and gray.

The wee cottage is quiet.

A lamp glows upon my desk, creating a warm pool of light against the darkness beyond the window. Beside it sits a coffee mug that desperately needs a refill.

I smile as I look at it.

Over the years I have collected coffee mugs bearing the images of the furry family members who have shared my life. This morning's mug belongs to Leona.

Her little face gazes up at me from the porcelain.

And memory does what memory does best.

It bridges time.

For a moment she is here again—not merely as a photograph but as a feeling. A warmth. A presence. A chapter of love that remains part of who I am.

John Barry's Give Me a Smile drifts through the cottage, filling the rooms with gentle music. Outside, the rain taps softly upon leaves and rooftops. Inside, coffee grows cold while thoughts wander.

Perhaps that is what mornings are for.

Not simply awakening the body, but awakening the heart.

This morning I find myself thinking about a quote by Harvey Fierstein:

"Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life; define yourself."

Those words speak powerfully to the experience of many gay people. They speak to the courage it takes to live honestly in a world that sometimes prefers masks to authenticity.

Yet I think they speak to something even larger.

They speak to all of us.

Each of us carries dreams, hopes, gifts, and truths that are uniquely our own. Yet throughout life there are voices—sometimes from society, sometimes from family, sometimes even from our own fears—that attempt to tell us who we should be.

Too often we listen.
Too often we shrink.
Too often we become smaller than the magnificent people we were meant to become.

But life is not an audition for someone else's approval.

It is an invitation.

An invitation to become fully ourselves.

The world does not need another imitation.

It needs the gift that only you can bring.

The older I grow, the more I believe that authenticity is one of the highest forms of courage. To be kind when bitterness would be easier. To be hopeful when cynicism is fashionable. To love when fear urges caution. To stand quietly in the truth of who you are.

That is courage.
That is strength.
And perhaps that is freedom.

Outside, the rain continues its gentle conversation with the earth.

Inside, my coffee mug is empty.

The day waits patiently.

Another morning.
Another chance.
Another opportunity to define ourselves not by fear, not by expectation, not by the opinions of others, but by the quiet truth that lives within.

The lamp still glows.
The music still plays.
The memory of Leona still warms my heart.

And so I rise to refill my coffee cup and greet this day exactly as I am.

Which, after all, is more than enough.
​
Morning reminds us that every day begins the same way—with light seeking a place to shine. Our task is simply to let it.

~Wylddane

"The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are."
~Carl Jung

June has arrived once again, bringing with it Pride Month.

Every year I see the rainbow flags, the celebrations, the parades, and the stories. And every year I find myself reflecting not so much on politics or culture, but on something far more personal—the simple courage required to be who we are.

I came out in the mid-1970s.

For many people today, it may be difficult to imagine what that was like. I had been raised in a deeply conservative religious environment. One of my closest friends was a preacher's kid. I attended an evangelical college. The messages I heard about homosexuality were rarely kind and never affirming.

Yet while I was losing my faith in the rigid religious sense, I was beginning to find something else.

I was beginning to find myself.

It was not an easy journey. There were false starts and moments of retreat. I ventured cautiously into a world I knew almost nothing about. Sometimes I was excited. Sometimes I was intimidated. Sometimes I was frightened. I even sought out counseling, hoping someone could help me sort through the confusion and fear.

Then came a winter night I have never forgotten.

I could not sleep.

Outside my window, snow drifted silently through the darkness. The world seemed cold and uncertain. As I stared into the falling snow, I found myself confronting the question I had been avoiding for years.

What if I simply told the truth?

What if I stopped fighting myself?

At some point during that long night, I made a decision.

The exact words still make me smile:

"I might go to hell for this, but at least I would have a good time—and be honestly me before I did."

It was hardly a theological masterpiece.

But it was honest.

And it was enough.

Looking back now, I realize that moment was not really about being gay. It was about choosing authenticity over fear. It was about deciding that a life honestly lived was better than a life spent hiding.

I have never looked back.

Life has not always been easy. There have been disappointments, heartbreaks, losses, and setbacks. No life escapes those things.

But there has also been extraordinary love.

There have been friendships that have endured for more than fifty years. There has been chosen family.

There have been adventures, laughter, tears, celebrations, and quiet moments of belonging. There have been people who saw me exactly as I was and loved me anyway.

Or perhaps more accurately, loved me because I was exactly who I was.

Today my faith looks different than it did when I was young. It is less about doctrines and certainty and more about spirit, kindness, wonder, and connection. I no longer worry about the questions that once kept me awake at night.

My soul rests easy.

When I think about Pride Month now, I think about that young man staring out a window at falling snow, wondering whether he dared to be himself.

I wish I could tell him what lay ahead.

I would tell him about the friends he had not yet met.

I would tell him about the family he would choose and who would choose him in return.

I would tell him about the joy waiting beyond the fear.

Most of all, I would tell him this:

The bravest thing you will ever do is become yourself.

And it will be worth it.

Every single day.
​
Happy Pride Month.

~Wylddane



​

“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

​The first hint that something was wrong came when the shadows stopped moving.

Tom noticed it first.

"Sam," he said, glancing at his watch, "what time do you have?"

Sam looked up from the rusted ticket booth he had been examining.

"Eight-thirty-seven."

Tom frowned.

"So do I."

The two men stood in the middle of the abandoned Starlight Drive-In, a forgotten landmark a few miles west of Lone Pine. Wildflowers grew between the cracked parking lanes. Young birch trees pushed through broken pavement. The giant movie screen still stood, weathered and white against the June sky.

The rest of the Bean & Birch gang had dared them to explore it.

"Bring back proof you made it to the projector building," Erica had laughed.

Now Tom wished they had stayed at the coffee shop.

Because the sun should have been setting.

Instead, it hung low above the horizon exactly where it had been for more than an hour.

Golden light washed over everything.

The shadows remained frozen.

The breeze carried the scent of clover and warm grass.

And time refused to move.

"Maybe your watch stopped."

"My phone says the same thing."

Tom checked his own.

8:37 PM.

No signal.

No messages.

No change.

Sam slowly turned in a circle.

"You feel it too, don't you?"

Tom nodded.

The air felt strange.

Not frightening.

Not dangerous.

Simply... paused.

As though the world had taken a breath and forgotten to exhale.

Then they heard music.

Faint.

Tinny.

Drifting from the projector building.

An old song neither recognized.

The two exchanged a glance and headed toward it.

Inside, dust danced in shafts of amber light.

The projector itself was dark.

Yet the music continued.

And on the far wall, words slowly appeared.

Not projected.

Written.

As if by an invisible hand.

TOM AND SAM.

Both men froze.

A second line appeared.

WHAT WAS LOST MUST BE FOUND.

The room fell silent.

Tom felt his stomach tighten.

Because he knew exactly what the message meant.

And judging from Sam's expression, so did he.

Twenty-seven years earlier, they had been best friends.

Inseparable.

Fishing on Stillwater Gleam.

Building forts in the woods.

Dreaming about the future.

Then one summer something happened.

Tom had won a scholarship neither of them expected.

A chance to leave Lone Pine.

A chance Sam desperately wanted for himself.

Rumors spread.

Harsh words followed.

Accusations neither fully remembered.

The friendship shattered.

Years later they reconciled enough to share coffee and stories.

But neither ever spoke about that summer.

The hurt remained buried.

Like a stone at the bottom of a lake.

Now the stone had surfaced.

Sam looked away first.

"You know," he said quietly, "I never hated you."

Tom blinked.

"What?"

"I was jealous."

The words echoed through the dusty room.

"I wanted what you had. I wanted to leave. I wanted the world to notice me. When you got that scholarship..." He laughed sadly. "I convinced myself you'd somehow stolen it."

Tom stared at the floor.

Golden light spilled through broken windows.

Outside, the sun remained motionless.

"I thought you believed the rumors."

"I didn't."

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

Sam smiled.

"Because I was nineteen and stubborn."

Tom laughed unexpectedly.

"So was I."

For a long moment neither spoke.

Then Tom said the thing he had carried for nearly three decades.

"I missed you."

The words hung in the air.

Simple.

True.

Powerful.

Sam's eyes glistened.

"I missed you too."

The projector suddenly clicked.

The old machine shuddered to life.

Light flooded the room.

On the wall appeared a silent film.

Two boys running along the shore of Stillwater Gleam.

Fishing rods over their shoulders.

Laughing.

Dreaming.

Tom and Sam.

The memory lasted only a moment.

Then the screen went white.

The music faded.

Outside, a robin sang.

A breeze stirred.

And for the first time in hours, the sun moved.

Slowly.

Gently.

Toward the horizon.

The world exhaled.

Tom checked his watch.

8:38 PM.

One minute had passed.

Yet somehow an entire lifetime had changed.

The two friends stepped outside together.

The sunset finally bloomed across the sky.

Pink.

Gold.

Rose.

June's colors.

The colors of second chances.

Far away, in Lone Pine, the lights of Bean & Birch glowed warmly in the gathering dusk.

And tomorrow, at the usual table, there would be stories to tell.

But some stories were too precious for words.

Some stories were simply meant to be lived.

* * * * * * * * * *

The first morning of June arrives beneath a sky of wandering clouds.

Here and there, sunlight breaks through, painting bright patches upon the garden before slipping once more behind the gray. It is a gentle morning, neither fully sunny nor fully overcast, suspended somewhere between.

I sit in the wee cottage with a steaming mug of coffee in hand and watch a robin splashing in the birdbath.

What a joyful thing it is.

The little bird seems utterly unconcerned with yesterday or tomorrow. Water flies in every direction. Wings flutter. Droplets catch the morning light like tiny jewels. The robin appears to be celebrating something, though perhaps there is nothing to celebrate except being alive on a June morning.

And perhaps that is enough.

Watching him, I feel what I can only describe as a soul smile.

Not a smile of the lips, but something deeper. A quiet happiness that begins somewhere within and slowly spreads outward until the entire world seems touched by it.

The coffee tastes especially good this morning.

The garden is lush and green.

The fountain burbles softly.

Birdsong drifts through the open window.

And June has arrived.

There is something philosophical about this month. June stands at a threshold. Spring has fulfilled its promises. Summer stretches before us like an unwritten chapter. We find ourselves balanced between memory and possibility.

Perhaps that is why June feels timeless.

It reminds us that life is not merely a collection of years, months, and days. It is this moment. This sip of coffee. This patch of sunlight. This robin in a birdbath.

We spend so much of our lives measuring time that we sometimes forget to inhabit it.

Yet happiness often appears when we do exactly that.

A robin knows nothing of calendars.

A flower does not consult a clock before blooming.

A June morning simply arrives and offers itself as a gift.

And so I sit for a while longer, watching sunlight drift across the garden and listening to the cheerful splashing of my feathered friend.

Another sip of coffee.

Another soul smile.

Another moment that will never come again and yet somehow feels eternal.

And so this month begins.

Not with fanfare.
Not with urgency.
But with gratitude.

And that seems a very good way to welcome June.

“June is the time for dreams to take flight.”   ~Henrik Edberg

~Wylddane


 



© 2025 Wylddane Productions, LLC

“Do not regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many. And like the rhododendron, the deepest roots often produce the most beautiful blooms.”

The coffee tastes good this morning.

Outside the windows of the wee cottage, the northwoods are awake with birdsong. The garden beds are bright with color. A gentle chorus of finches, sparrows, and orioles drifts through the air while classical music wanders softly from room to room. Beyond the glass, the rising sun has painted the clouds in shades of pink and orange, as if dawn itself paused to create a watercolor before beginning the day.

I take another sip of coffee and watch the morning unfold.

Yet beneath the beauty, my thoughts are heavier today.

Perhaps it is because growing older has a way of changing the questions we ask. When we are young, we wonder what lies ahead. As the years pass, we sometimes find ourselves looking behind as often as we look forward. We carry memories, disappointments, regrets, joys, losses, and the occasional ache of realizing that some things did not turn out quite the way we hoped they would.

There are mornings when the weight of that knowing settles quietly beside us.

This is one of those mornings.

And yet, sitting here, I find my eyes drawn to the rhododendron.

Its blossoms seem almost impossible—creamy white petals touched with gold, glowing in the morning light. Their beauty appears effortless, but I know better.

The rhododendron did not become magnificent overnight.

It spent years becoming what it is.

Year after year it sent roots deeper into the earth. Through scorching summers and bitter winters, through storms and droughts, through seasons when no flowers appeared at all, it continued its slow, patient work.
When winter came, it protected itself. Its leaves curled inward against the cold, preserving life until warmer days returned.

There is wisdom in that.

As we grow older, perhaps our task is not so different.

There are seasons when we must open ourselves fully to life and seasons when we must protect what is precious within us. There are times to bloom and times simply to endure.

The world often celebrates youth because it is visible and dramatic. But age possesses a quieter beauty. It is found in roots rather than branches. It lives in understanding rather than certainty. It reveals itself in resilience rather than speed.

The rhododendron reminds me that life is not diminished by age.

It is deepened by it.

Its gnarled branches do not lessen the splendor of its blossoms. In many ways, they make the blossoms possible.

Perhaps the same is true of us.

The wrinkles, scars, disappointments, and losses we carry are not evidence that life has passed us by. They are evidence that we have lived.

And because we have lived, we are still capable of blooming.

That thought brings me to another realization.

There are times when I look at my life and see troubling conditions or unwelcome circumstances. There are moments when resignation whispers that things are simply the way they are and cannot be changed.

Yet whenever I begin to believe that, I have forgotten something important.

I have forgotten that imagination is not merely fantasy.

It is creation's first step.

The future is always born in the unseen before it arrives in the seen.

If I use my imagination to rehearse worry, fear, and disappointment, I invite those shadows into my experience. But if I use that same sacred power to envision peace, joy, friendship, purpose, healing, and possibility, I am planting entirely different seeds.

The rhododendron understands this better than we do.

Every spring it behaves as though winter never had the final word.

Every spring it believes in blossoms before blossoms appear.

Every spring it trusts the life hidden within itself.

And every spring it is rewarded.

Perhaps growing older is not about surrendering our dreams.

Perhaps it is about choosing better dreams.

Not dreams of becoming someone else.

Not dreams of reliving yesterday.

But dreams of becoming fully who we are today.

The years have taught us much. They have shown us what matters and what does not. They have revealed the preciousness of ordinary mornings, good coffee, birdsong, friendship, beauty, and love.

The years have also taught us something else:

This day is still ours.

This morning is still ours.

This moment is still ours.

And within this moment lives the same creative power that has always lived within us.

Outside, the rhododendron glows in the sunlight.

The birds continue their songs.

The clouds drift slowly across the brightening sky.

The music plays softly.

And I sit quietly with my coffee, grateful for another day, reminded that while youth may pass, growth never does.

Like the rhododendron, we are still becoming.

Still rooting.

Still blooming.

Still capable of surprising ourselves with beauty.

I take another sip of coffee.

And this day, this precious gift, has begun.
​
~Wylddane

​

"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away."    ~Anonymous

This morning, as I sit with my coffee and watch the clouds slowly gather beyond the window, I am reminded of a simple truth I recently encountered:

"We only die once. We live every day."

At first glance, it seems obvious. Of course we die only once. Of course we live every day.

Yet sometimes the most profound wisdom arrives disguised as simplicity.

The cool air drifting through the wee cottage tells me that the heat of the past week is finally loosening its grip. The morning feels refreshed, renewed. Somewhere nearby a bird calls. The fountain burbles its familiar song. On the stereo, the gentle elegance of a harpsichord drifts through the room, each note from John Rutter's Lyric Suite: Chanson falling softly into the stillness.

Nothing extraordinary is happening.

And yet everything is.

How often do we spend our days preparing for life rather than living it?

We tell ourselves that happiness will begin when a problem is solved, when a goal is reached, when circumstances improve, when the world becomes less uncertain. We postpone joy until some imagined future date.

But life is not waiting in the future.

Life is here.

It is the taste of coffee on a cool morning.

It is sunlight when it appears and clouds when they gather.

It is the bloom of a begonia that opens for a few brief weeks and then quietly fades.

It is the phone call from a friend, the wagging tail of a dog, the song of an oriole, the scent of rain on warm earth.

It is this breath.

This moment.

This day.

The truth is that death occupies only a single moment in our story.

Living occupies all the others.

And yet many of us spend precious hours worrying about endings while overlooking the miracle of the pages we are currently writing.

The yellow begonia outside does not bloom forever. Neither does the lilac, the rose, the crabapple, nor the maple leaf in autumn. Their beauty comes precisely because their season is limited.

Perhaps the same is true for us.

The finite nature of our days is not a reason for sadness. It is what makes each day valuable.
The fact that this morning will never come again makes it sacred.
The fact that this cup of coffee can only be enjoyed once makes it precious.
The fact that the people we love are not guaranteed forever is exactly why we should tell them we love them today.

We only die once.

But we are given thousands upon thousands of opportunities to live.

To laugh.
To forgive.
To wonder.
To notice.
To begin again.

As the clouds continue to gather and the music drifts through the wee cottage, I find myself grateful for this ordinary morning.

Not because it is dramatic.
Not because it is perfect.
But because it is here.

And so today, perhaps the invitation is simply this:

Do not wait for life to begin.

It already has.

Take a sip of coffee.

Listen to the music.

Notice the flower.

Feel the cool air.

And embrace this beautiful, fleeting, miraculous day of living.
​
For we only die once.
But today, once again, we are given the gift of living.

~Wylddane