Once upon a time, winter came early to the small village of Cranberry Creek, tucked deep in the northwoods of Wisconsin. Snowdrifts piled against frost-coated windows, chimneys breathed white ribbons into the sharp morning air, and the spruce trees stood stoic and still beneath heavy blankets of snow.

It was the kind of place where time moved gently, where neighbors knew each other’s favorite pies, and where the annual Thanksgiving Potluck was a cherished ritual—equal parts celebration, tradition, and comfort.

But on this particular November morning, the village woke to a hush more unsettling than the quiet of falling snow.

The prized Thanksgiving turkey—Queen Abigail, a splendid 27-pound beauty—had vanished from Mayor Merryweather’s locked smokehouse.

Gone.
Not a feather in sight.

And so began the most baffling mystery Cranberry Creek had seen since the Great Pumpkin Pie Debacle of ’87.

Mayor Aldus Merryweather, a kindly man with a snowy mustache and a belly shaped by years of potluck generosity, called on Sheriff Silas Brody—a steady, dependable figure more accustomed to small-town disputes than holiday crimes.

“Someone stole Queen Abigail!” the Mayor cried, wringing his hands. “This is catastrophic!”

Sheriff Brody examined the empty smokehouse, head tilted, brow furrowed. Deputy Rosie Finnegan scribbled notes, though she couldn’t hide her amusement at the drama of it all.

“Locked door,” Brody murmured. “No tracks except… the Mayor’s. That’s unusual.”

But as rumors spread through the village like wildfire across dry pine, one name rose to the top:
Old Man Hemlock!

He was Cranberry Creek’s resident recluse—a curious mixture of eccentric, prickly, and oddly tender-hearted, though most people forgot that part. He lived alone at the edge of Frostberry Marsh in a crooked cabin that children dared each other to run past on Halloween.

“He hates Thanksgiving,” someone whispered.
“He talks to trees,” another added.
“And he smells like sage most days.”
Sheriff Brody sighed. “Let’s go talk to him.”


The trek to Hemlock’s cabin felt longer than usual. Snow deepened with each step, and the wind carried a hollow, fluting sound through the marsh reeds. The trees creaked like old bones shifting in their sleep.

Before Brody could knock, the door opened with a slow, whispering groan.

Old Man Thaddeus Hemlock stood in the doorway—tall and thin as a birch pole, silver hair standing like lightning around his head, eyes bright with a strange mix of wariness and wisdom.

“I suppose you’ve come about the bird,” he rasped.

Inside, the cabin was dim and warm, lit only by the orange flicker of a small woodstove. Bundles of herbs—sage, cedar, sweetgrass, rosemary—hung from the rafters like tiny suspended spirits. The air smelled ancient, earthy, familiar.

Rosie gasped softly.
“Sheriff… look.”

In the far corner stood the most unusual object Brody had ever seen:
A contraption of bent willow branches, bound with twine into a teardrop frame.

From the frame dangled old canning jars, each filled with dried beans, pebbles, or hickory nuts. Even the gentle heat of the stove stirred them into a faint chime—clink, rattle, tap.

Woven among the branches were bundles of herbs, releasing a sharp, wild perfume. Thin strips of tin glimmered suddenly whenever the fire popped, sending quick, spooky flashes around the room.

It felt alive.
Alert.
Watching.

“What… is that thing?” Rosie whispered.

Hemlock’s back straightened ever so slightly.
“That,” he said, “is a turkey guardian.”

Brody blinked.
“A what?”

“A guardian,” Hemlock repeated. “It rattles and clangs when the wind stirs it. Spooks off anything that prowls too close. And the herbs keep wild things uneasy.”

He paused, voice softening.

“I built it after I saw danger sniffing around the Mayor’s smokehouse two nights ago.”

“Coyotes?” Brody guessed.

Hemlock hesitated.
“No. Barnaby!”

Rosie sputtered out a laugh.

“Barnaby—the Mayor’s golden retriever? That Barnaby?”

Hemlock gave her a look that could sour milk.

“That dog has the appetite of a bear and the brains of a mop. I heard him nosing around. So”—he gestured toward the peculiar creation—“I made this.”

Brody studied the guardian again.
The jars rattling like restless bones…
The herbs perfuming the air with something wild and old…
The strips of tin flickering like cold fire…
He cleared his throat.
“It’s unusual,” he admitted.
Hemlock’s voice dropped to a whisper rarely heard.
“It’s intention,” he said. “And protection. Those two things can work wonders.”


Back through the swirling snow Sheriff Brody and Rosie trudged, following faint disturbances in the drifts around the Mayor’s yard. Near the back deck, they saw something that made Rosie snort.

Feathers.
Drool.

And a golden tail wagging so hard it shook fresh snow off the railing.

There lay Queen Abigail, only mildly chewed and thoroughly licked—but intact.

Curled blissfully beside her, belly full and conscience empty, was Barnaby.

When the Mayor arrived, he nearly collapsed.
“Oh, Barnaby… what have you done?”

Brody patted the Mayor on the shoulder.
“She’ll still cook up fine, Aldus. And for the record… Hemlock tried to help.”

The Mayor swallowed hard, shame thawing the worry on his face.
“I owe him an apology,” he whispered.


That evening, the Cranberry Creek Community Hall glowed with warmth. Evergreen boughs draped the rafters. Lanterns flickered. The air smelled of rolls, cinnamon, and roasting turkey.

Mayor Merryweather raised his glass.
“Friends, we owe tonight’s feast to Sheriff Brody, Deputy Finnegan, and…”

He hesitated, then added with a sheepish smile,
“…Mr. Thaddeus Hemlock, who protected our bird better than we did.”
Cheers filled the hall.

Even Hemlock blushed beneath his beard.

Barnaby, freshly bathed and proudly wearing a bandana reading “OFFICIAL TURKEY TESTER,” trotted around greeting guests. Children fed him biscuits under the table. Adults shook Hemlock’s hand. For once, he didn’t pull away.

Outside, the snow fell in soft, forgiving layers, covering the day’s footprints—leaving everything bright and clean again.

* * * * * * * * * *
And then the story faded, as stories do.

I blinked, and the little village of Cranberry Creek dissolved like mist.

Here I am again—back in my wee cottage in the northwoods. Dawn is unfurling across the November sky, painting the clouds in etched strokes of rose and gold. My mug of coffee warms my hands. The first delicate notes of Zipoli’s Elevazione drift through the room like a gentle prayer.

As I sit here, gratitude wells up quietly, deeply—like a spring beneath winter.

I think of Thich Nhat Hanh’s beautiful words:
“In gratitude, I bow to this land and all of the ancestors who made it available.
I see that I am whole, protected, and nourished by this land and all the living beings
that have been here and made life worthwhile and possible for me through all of their efforts.”

And then this:
“I promise myself that I will enjoy every minute of the day that is given me to live.”

Outside, the sun eases higher, illuminating the oak trees and the balsams.
Inside, the music softens.
The coffee tastes rich and good.

Another November day begins—full of mystery, warmth, stories, and gratitude.
​
What a wonderful day it is.

~Wylddane

He found the letter one crisp November morning while sorting through a box of old papers—the kind of box filled with forgotten fragments of a life: ticket stubs, postcards, faded photographs, and folded notes written in a younger hand. The letter wasn’t long, nor particularly eloquent, but its warmth leapt across time. It was from a man named Mr. Albright, who had once offered him kindness at a moment when the world had felt unbearably cold.

He remembered it vividly—the year everything seemed to fall apart. Work lost, love gone silent, the light dimmed in ways he could not explain. And yet, one evening, sitting on a park bench by the St. Croix River, Mr. Albright had sat beside him and simply listened. No advice. No judgment. Just presence. Then he’d said quietly, “You know, gratitude is like a lantern. It doesn’t change the night, but it shows you where to place your next step.”

Those words had stayed with him. That lantern, unseen but steady, had guided him through dark places.

Years passed, and the young man had grown older, wiser perhaps, certainly gentler. Standing now by the same river, he noticed a single shrub blazing with golden leaves amid the dull November grass. Sunlight slipped through clouds, catching the leaves in a moment of pure alchemy—amber, copper, fire. It was as though the earth herself whispered, Behold what endures.

He thought then of how kindness endures too—how one small gesture ripples outward like the widening circles of a pebble dropped in still water. Mr. Albright was long gone, but his words remained alive, breathing quietly in every act of compassion, every grateful thought.

He took a deep breath, watching his own reflection shimmer and break upon the river’s surface. Gratitude, he realized, wasn’t about counting blessings; it was about seeing them. It was the art of noticing—of being awake enough to recognize grace in the simplest things: sunlight through golden leaves, the crisp scent of autumn air, the music of wind through bare branches.

He smiled, whispering into the silence, “Thank you.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Now, as dawn unfolds beyond the windows of the wee cottage, the horizon blushes with rose and gold—morning’s quiet symphony. The coffee, rich and aromatic, warms my hands as the first notes of Elgar’s Cello Concerto drift through the room, tender as memory.

The world outside glistens in frost and promise. Inside, there is peace—a peace born not from perfection, but from presence. I know that every thought I hold shapes the landscape of his day.

As Dr. Wayne Dyer once said:
“Once you realize that what you think about is the source of your reality, then you will pay more attention to what you're thinking in any given moment.”

And so, I choose gratitude. I choose to think beauty, to think kindness, to think love. Because what we hold in mind becomes what we see in the world.

The sun rises a little higher, spilling gold across the table. I take another sip of coffee, smile softly, and let the music carry me into the light of a new day—heart steady, soul grateful.

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

~Wylddane

The sunrise flames across the November sky, the world awash in hues of rose, violet, and gold. The trees stand in silhouette—solemn witnesses to the morning’s quiet beauty. On this day of remembrance, I find myself thinking of the countless souls who had walked into battle, into darkness, and into history.

* * * * * * * * * *


Private James Burke clutched the small brass locket in his pocket, its smooth surface warm from the press of his hand. Inside was a tiny photograph of his mother and the faint scent of home—lavender and woodsmoke. He had a strange feeling he was going to need its comfort.

The mud, the rats, the ceaseless thunder of artillery—it was all a blur of fear and exhaustion. Yet the locket was a constant, a fragile thread binding him to life.

A few days later, during a push near St. Quentin, a searing pain burst through his chest. He fell back, certain the end had come. But by some miracle, the bullet struck the locket, glancing off just enough to wound, not kill.

He lay bleeding in the cold mud, the roar of battle dimming to a hollow silence. And then—out of the smoke—a young German officer appeared. The man looked barely older than James, his face pale with disbelief at the carnage surrounding them. Without a word, he knelt, lifted James in his arms, and carried him across no-man’s-land to a field hospital.

James survived. He would live to tell the story of the “lucky locket,” and the German who had shown him mercy in the heart of hell. But the truth—the secret he never shared—was that the face he had seen through the haze of pain was one he recognized. It was his childhood friend from the same small Wisconsin village. Whether that was a vision, a ghost, or grace itself, he never knew. But for the rest of his days, he carried the locket close, a reminder that even amid war, humanity can still find its way through the smoke.

* * * * * * * * * *
Now, as I sit in the wee cottage watching the dawn rise beyond the bare November trees, Karl Jenkins’ Benedictus from The Armed Man drifts softly through the room. The music—reverent, sacred—floats like a prayer, honoring those who gave their lives and those who returned with wounds unseen.

I pause. I take a sip from my steaming, fragrant mug of coffee. The sunrise announces a new day’s arrival; its colors, rich and radiant, honor every soul who once believed in freedom, compassion, and peace.

Even though dishonor has crept into high places and truth seems shadowed by deceit, I know those men and women did not die in vain. Their courage calls to us still—to remember, to act with integrity, and to lift our nation from the brink.
​
Today, in the glow of morning light, remembrance is not sorrow—it is a vow.

“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old...”   ~Laurence Binyon

~Wylddane

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Wylddane

​Deep golden leaves accented by the quiet azure water of this hidden lake capture the spirit of an autumn day. As I gaze at this image, I find myself drawn back into that timeless moment.

"We take photos as a return ticket to a moment otherwise gone."  ~Unknown

Golden leaves glow like fleeting treasures, each one a brushstroke of fire against the calm water. Their brilliance feels like memory itself—radiant, fragile, and fleeting. In them, I see the luminous insights that color a lifetime, brief flashes of truth gathered along the winding path of days.

The water, still and serene, mirrors the sky. Its glasslike surface whispers a deeper invitation: to pause, to reflect, to remember the calm that lies beneath the ripples of daily life. Thoughts may stir like wind across the surface, but in the depths there is always silence, a sacred space untouched by turmoil. Mystical traditions across the world teach that still water is the image of a quieted mind. When the surface is unbroken, we can see clearly, perceiving truths too easily hidden in the restless noise of the world.

Gold has long symbolized the divine, the prosperous, the illuminated. These leaves, fleeting yet eternal in their beauty, seem to embody that golden wisdom—insight not to be hoarded, but to be received with gratitude. For when a leaf drifts onto the calm lake, it rests for only a moment, its reflection captured in perfection before dissolving into the flow. So, too, do sudden understandings arrive in our lives—fragile, profound, and precious.
​
And now, as the day grows lighter outside my cottage window, my reverie returns to the present. I rise to refill my coffee mug, its warmth and fragrance a simple joy. The soft cadence of Karl Jenkins’ Adiemus drifts through the room, its notes pulling me gently back to the now. With golden leaves, quiet water, music, and coffee, I begin this mystical autumn day—grateful for the fleeting, luminous treasures that remind me how beautiful it is simply to be.

"In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks."  ~John Muir

~Wylddane

A few years ago, I stood at Clam Falls Reservoir and lifted my camera to capture what my heart already knew—this was September distilled into one moment. Green still held the land in its warm embrace, yet here and there, fire announced itself—red and gold spilling across the canopy, a gentle whisper of the season about to unfold. It was not quite summer, not quite autumn, but something between—an exquisite threshold.

In that picture, I see not only the color of leaves but also the nature of time itself. Life, too, is lived in thresholds—between endings and beginnings, between loss and renewal, between who we were yesterday and who we are becoming today. The hush of September reminds us that we need not rush. Transformation happens in its own rhythm, like the migration of birds—some gone, some lingering, all following their innate compass. The Canadian geese will be the last to leave, their calls echoing across the water, a farewell and a promise all at once.

This morning, as I stirred awake, I made certain to start with gratitude. The first thought: “Isn’t this a beautiful day?” The second: “My, but the coffee tastes good.” Simple beginnings, but powerful ones. For the mind, when filled with light, casts its glow across the hours to come. Darkness at dawn has given way to light, and with it comes a gentle reminder: every day is born new, and we can choose how to meet it.

The air has turned, the chill of recent days softening into warmth again. Later, I will step outside and breathe deeply, letting myself be held by the trees, the sky, the shimmering water. When we commune with nature, we rediscover our truest selves. Here, among these September colors, it is easy to remember that each thought, each choice, is a brushstroke on the canvas of our lives.

Just as those who invented the wheel set in motion the evolution of technology—giving rise to all kinds of advances—I cannot know the impact of my ideas, actions, and deeds. In this life I like to think my thoughts and deeds benefit this world.  My choices ripple outward in ways beyond my understanding. Prosperity flows through me. Just as technology evolves, so does my consciousness, expanding my capacity to give. Each generous act multiplies, and my every blessing extends beyond me.
​
* * * * * * * * * *
“As one candle lights another without diminishing itself, so too does each act of kindness multiply, illuminating the world beyond our knowing.”

~Wylddane

September settles softly on the porch, where blossoms still spill over their clay pots and the wood holds the warmth of countless summers. The air is touched with change, yet not all at once—it arrives like a sigh, a cool edge to the morning, a hush to the evening. And in that hush, the lantern begins to glow.

It is not lit by hand. At dusk, when the last light lingers against the golden wall, the glass awakens with a quiet flame. Its glow is not harsh, not meant for banishing dark, but for revealing what lies hidden within it. For this lantern belongs to September, and September is the keeper of memory.

Sit near it, and the flame will offer you a gift. At first it is only warmth and a gentle shimmer on the leaves. But wait—wait long enough, and you will hear whispers carried by the cricket-song. You will see shapes in the glow, as if the flame has caught fragments of time. A child’s laughter on a swing, a mother’s hands kneading bread, the sweet sharp taste of apples in an orchard at dusk. Each vision is both yours and not yours, both past and present, for September holds the echoes of every summer that has ever been.

Some evenings, the lantern glows with joy: fields of goldenrod, the hum of bees, the tender press of a lover’s hand. Other nights, it burns softer, carrying the sorrow of endings—the last school bell of summer, the final swim in the lake, a farewell whispered beneath stars. Yet even in sorrow, the light is kind. It reminds us that memory is not loss but keeping—holding close what time alone cannot erase.

Neighbors have passed by and paused at the gate, drawn by the glow. Each has seen something different. One saw a grandfather’s worn flannel shirt, the scent of woodsmoke clinging to it. Another saw a beloved dog bounding across tall grass. Another, a first dance in a gymnasium strung with paper lanterns. When the flame dimmed, they carried the vision home, warmed by its quiet blessing.

By morning, the porch is ordinary again. Flowers nod, chairs wait, the lantern sits silent. Yet those who have seen its light walk differently through the day. They notice the way dew pearls on the grass, the way the air carries both cool and warmth, the way September asks us to pause, to gather, to remember.
​
For the lantern does not show us the past only. It shows us what it means to be alive in this golden threshold—where endings and beginnings meet, and every moment glows with the magic of being.

* * * * * * * * * *

“In September’s light, every memory is a lantern, and every lantern is a prayer.”  ~Wylddane

~Wylddane




​

“Dawn whispers softly, carrying yesterday away and opening the heart to today's promise.”

There is a small lake in the village where I live. Some mornings, instead of wandering the garden paths, I find myself drawn down to the water’s edge to greet the sunrise. Today was such a morning, and this is the image I carried back with me: golden light spilling across the stillness, rich and soft, vibrant and subdued all at once.

In these late August days, the sun feels different. Its light is gentler, deeper, richer in hue—like a beloved song sung in a lower key. The mornings and evenings shimmer with gold, copper, and bronze, as if the Universe itself has dipped its brush into a warmer palette. Standing at the shore, it feels like gazing through a gate into something vast and holy, a reminder of the miracle of simply being part of this world.

Each of us is a unique and important thread in this great tapestry. We carry gifts, talents, and sparks of creativity unlike any other. To be true to ourselves—to live fully and openly—is to live our purpose. Some of us lift hearts through art or music, some through teaching or guiding, others simply through kindness. Whatever the form, each act of giving enriches the whole.

Each day arrives as an invitation to consider what we can offer back to this miraculous Universe. A word of encouragement, a smile, a song, a thoughtful creation—all ripple outward, unseen yet enduring. In giving, we also find ourselves guided, nourished, and transformed.
​
So this day begins: dew-touched grass brushing my feet, the haunting call of a loon across the lake, the whisper of a breeze stirring the trees. The dawn opens its arms, and with gratitude and wonder, I step into its promise.

~Wylddane

"May my teaching drop like the rain, my speech condense like the dew; like gentle rain on grass, like showers on new growth."  ~Deuteronomy 32:2

I am not a religious person. Rarely do I quote the Bible. Yet this verse found its way to me as I was reading something else, and it stopped me. Not because I heard a voice of God speaking directly, but because I recognized a universal wisdom contained within its words.

Morning often reveals what the night has quietly prepared. Stepping outside with coffee in hand, there are days when the grass sparkles with dew, each droplet a small jewel offered freely to the world. Nothing is asked of us in return. The dew comes, unannounced and without discrimination, touching every blade of grass alike—tall and short, strong and fragile.

This passage speaks to more than religion; it speaks to the heart of being human. Teaching, like rain or dew, is most powerful when it is shared gently and universally. Words need not roar like thunder to shape a life; often it is the soft presence of kindness, the quiet drop of truth, that nourishes growth within us.

In this way, the world itself is a teacher. The rain falls whether or not we notice. The dew condenses even as we sleep. Lessons arrive unbidden—in a smile from a stranger, in the loyalty of a pet, in the turning of a leaf toward light. Just as the grass and new growth depend on showers, our spirits depend on these daily infusions of grace.

And perhaps the deepest teaching is that none of this is withheld. The universe does not measure who is worthy of dew or rain. All receive it. Likewise, wisdom, compassion, and love are not scarce commodities but infinite gifts, available to all who pause long enough to feel them soak in.

May we learn to let our own words fall in the same way—gentle, nourishing, free of judgment. May we remember that we, too, can be the rain and dew for another, offering kindness that refreshes, encouragement that sustains, and love that allows new growth to flourish.
​
"The gentle rain makes no distinction, yet everything it touches is changed."  ~Anonymous

~Wylddane

“Rather than looking for miracles, shift to seeing everything as miraculous.”   ~Wayne Dyer

This morning has dawned clear and cool. The heavy air of humidity, with its stifling dew points, has lifted for now, leaving behind a gentleness that feels like a gift. The air conditioner rests in silence, the windows and French door stand open, welcoming the fresh morning breeze as it wanders into the house.

Most mornings, when I can, I wander through my gardens with a coffee mug in hand, listening to the birds, touching the blooms, and letting the rhythm of the earth set the tone for the day. Yet not every day is like that. Some mornings I take a different walk—a walk down “Memory Lane.” It may not be a physical path, but it is just as real.

On those mornings, classical music hums softly in the background, or perhaps I read, or simply gaze out the window, seeing everything and nothing at the same time. My faithful mug of coffee sits close by, its fragrance mingling with the cool air, its warmth grounding me in the moment. Thoughts drift—moments of the past returning with vivid detail. I find myself once more on the banks of the St. Croix River at Spanglers Landing, the spring leaves bright with fresh green, the water reflecting the trees in shimmering patterns. The river is steady, timeless, and yet forever changing—just as memory is.

Then my mind shifts back to the day at hand. The beauty of its promise is as alive as the memory of the river. The miracle is not only in what was, but in what is right now—this moment, this breath, this sip of coffee, this breeze across my cheek.

Years ago, Dr. Wayne Dyer’s Your Erroneous Zones was placed in my hands, and it quietly transformed the way I thought about life. His words, still whispered across the years, remind me daily to shift my perception: “Change your view of the world...Change your view of the world to one of awe and bewilderment. Rather than looking for miracles, shift to seeing everything as miraculous.”

How wondrous to begin the day with this reminder—that life is not waiting to reveal miracles somewhere out there, but is itself the miracle. Each moment, each note of music, each memory and each hope, every clear morning and every storm, is woven into a tapestry of wonder.
​
And so, with coffee in hand and a heart awakened to the miraculous, I begin this new day.

~Wylddane