The snow had been falling since the small hours of the morning—soft, steady flakes drifting down like whispered blessings over the little northwoods town where Grandpa Liam lived. Outside, the world was a quiet watercolor of white and shadow. Inside his home, though, warmth reigned: the sigh of the old radiator, the glow of lamplight on wooden floors, and the crackle of a fire that painted the room in amber.

It was Christmas Eve, 1965, and the house was buzzing with gentle commotion. My parents, ever devoted to tasteful minimalism, had planned a sleek, elegant tree that belonged more in a magazine than a family room. But all that dissolved the moment Grandpa Liam arrived.

He burst through the door in a swirl of cold air, cheeks rosy, boots dusted with snow, dragging behind him a fir tree of unmistakable character—slightly crooked, intensely fragrant, and shedding snow across the rug with a joyful indifference to decorum.

“There she is!” he declared proudly, patting the trunk as if greeting an old friend. “The queen of Christmas!”

My mother stared, equal parts horrified and amused. “Oh… Liam. It’s… big.”

“It’s perfect,” he said, winking at me. “A tree needs soul, not symmetry.”

And so, for one glorious year, the tree belonged entirely to him.

Every ornament we owned—glass baubles, crocheted angels, felt elves, fragile treasures from my grandmother—found a place on its branches. Popcorn garlands sagged. Tinsel hung in great sparkling swaths. The lights blinked with unruly enthusiasm.

But the crowning glory was a tiny felt reindeer with one missing antler.

“That’s Rudolph, Jr.,” Grandpa Liam announced. “Lost his antler in the blizzard of ’52. Still the bravest reindeer in the North Woods Brigade.”

He clipped Rudolph, Jr. to the topmost branch with a wooden clothespin, stepped back with his hands on his hips, and declared the job a triumph. My mother sighed, but even then, I could tell she loved the tree because he loved it.

Later that night, after everyone else had drifted to bed, I wandered into the living room and found Grandpa Liam sitting quietly in the glow of the lights. Snow pressed softly against the windows, muting the world, and the tree shimmered like something out of a faraway dream.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Well,” he said, patting the seat beside him, “someone ought to keep Rudolph, Jr. company.”

We shared a plate of cookies and simply watched the lights twinkle. When I finally climbed into bed, the last thing I saw was that brave little one-antlered reindeer keeping watch over Christmas.

_________________________________

January arrived with its familiar hush and the faint melancholy that always follows the holidays. It was time to take the tree down. My mother wrapped each ornament carefully, as if storing memories more than decorations. My father unwound the lights with exaggerated patience.

I reached for Rudolph, Jr., intending to free him from his perch. But when I lifted him, something unusual happened—the clothespin came away with a faint pop, revealing a small, perfectly shaped hollow in the bark.

Inside was a folded, yellowed piece of paper.

My heart fluttered. I brought it to Grandpa Liam, whose expression shifted from curiosity to wonder as he unfolded it.

“It’s a letter,” he whispered, eyes scanning the page. “A Christmas Eve letter.”

The date: December 24, 1943.
The signature: “To my dearest Eleanor — forever yours, Robert.”

My mother gasped softly when she saw the names, a tremor running through her.

“Eleanor was my grandmother’s name,” she said, voice barely audible. “And Robert… he was her first husband. He died in the war. She always said she never received his last letter.”

A stunned silence held the room.

Then my mother looked at the tree with a dawning realization. “There’s something I never told you about that old roadside stand where Dad bought this tree…”

She swallowed, gathering memory.

“Before it sold Christmas trees, that land was my grandmother Eleanor’s family farm. After Robert enlisted, he worked there in the winters, helping her family cut young evergreens to sell. Family stories say he wrote her a Christmas Eve letter the night before he shipped out and planned to tuck it into a tree as a surprise she’d bring inside. But he was called away early. He never got the chance.”

She ran her thumb over the faded ink.

“That tree… it must have been just a sapling then. The letter slipped into a small hollow in the bark, and the tree grew around it, keeping it safe—through seasons, storms, years. Until the day Grandpa Liam, of all people, chose it from the stand.”

We all stared at the tree anew—not as a decoration, but as a keeper of memory.

Grandpa Liam let out a long, reverent breath.
“Well,” he murmured, “some things are meant to find their way home.”

And so, in that unexpected January morning, our lopsided, glittering tree became something sacred.

And Rudolph, Jr.—guardian of secrets—took on a new role in our family. Every year thereafter, he watched from the highest branch, a reminder that love, like Christmas, always finds its way.

* * * * * * * * * *

I stir from my reverie… the story so alive within me that returning to the present feels like stepping gently out of a dream. A peaceful, wistful ache lingers—one part memory, one part blessing.

Before me, my own tree glows with quiet warmth. Beyond the windows, the winter darkness presses close, soft and deep. Snowdrifts catch the little light that remains, turning the world into a monochrome hush.

I sip my coffee.
I listen to the fire crackling in the hearth.
KDFC plays softly in the background, and as Vittorio Grigolo’s sweet tenor lifts “Ave Maria” into the room, I stop everything. I simply breathe. Listen. Absorb.

At my age, I carry memories like cherished ornaments—some shining, some cracked, all part of the tapestry of a life lived deeply. I think of Christmas tree hunts with my parents… of them laughing, negotiating, gently disagreeing about the “right side” of the tree. These small moments rise now as treasures.

Dr. Wayne Dyer’s words drift across my thoughts:
“I am blessed. Today I will focus on all that is good in my life!”

Yes.

Oh, the memories behind me.
Oh, the memories waiting to be born today.

I take another sip of coffee.
Outside, the darkness is still unbroken.
Inside, the wee cottage glows with warmth and promise.

And so… I begin this day.

* * * * * * * * * *

​“Some memories arrive wrapped in silence, waiting years for the right heart to open them.”  ~Unknown

~Wylddane

Snow sifted gently through the tall pines, soft as breath, soft as memory. The December night lay hushed and shimmering, the kind of night when the world feels older than time and younger than dawn. Liam walked the narrow trail with the slow, steady steps of a man who had traveled many roads—some chosen, some thrust upon him, and some stumbled into the way a stranger stumbles upon grace.

The woods were familiar yet changed, draped in winter’s solemn beauty. Frost clung to every branch like tiny shattered stars, and the sky above him was a pewter bowl of snow clouds. He tugged his scarf higher, breath clouding the cold air. He had come out here to clear his thoughts, to walk off a heaviness he could not name.
​
Then, as if the night itself had taken a deep breath and released it, the clouds parted.

Above him—bright, impossible, whole—shone a single brilliant star.

Liam stopped mid-step. His heart lifted, tightened, then softened into something he had not felt in years. This star—this very star—looked exactly as it had on a winter night long ago, when he was only eight, bundled in a blue coat and wool hat, standing in his parents’ backyard with snowflakes melting on his cheeks. He had made a wish then—his first true wish. A child’s wish. A wish shaped out of hope and wonder and the belief that the universe listened.

The grown man he had become—the one tested by time, worn by grief, lifted by unexpected joys, remade by life’s twists—felt the child rise in him again. The old dream stirred.

He whispered into the stillness, “I remember you.”

The star shimmered as if it heard.

And in that moment the forest changed. The hush deepened. The cold softened. Liam felt suspended between the man he was and the child he had been. Without meaning to, without thinking, he closed his eyes and made a wish. A new wish. Born from wisdom, from tenderness, from the long arc of a life lived fully—with all its bruises and all its blessings.

He did not speak the wish aloud. Some wishes are too sacred for sound.

When he opened his eyes, the star seemed even brighter, and something inside him shifted. Not dramatically, not with fanfare… but surely. The kind of shift that gently alters the course of a life.

He trudged on through the snowy woods, no longer seeking clarity but carrying it. The night felt warmer, the path steadier. He walked forward changed—quietly, profoundly—by the star he thought he had lost, and by the child he realized he had never truly left behind.

* * * * * * * * * *

Although no brilliant star greets this December morning—still dark outside the windows—I find myself gazing at the soft lights of the Christmas tree. Their gentle glow ushers me from the reverie of the story into the warm quiet of the wee cottage.

One of my Christmas coffee mugs sits beside me, full to the brim with deliciousness. The aroma rises like a blessing. Hauser’s cello brings Morricone’s Once Upon a Time in the West to life, each note a ribbon of beauty drifting through the morning stillness. Frost has etched its own artistry upon the windowpanes—silver, delicate, fleeting.

It is a peaceful moment of bliss, and into this space come these words:

“Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.”

I pause with them. Turn them over. Let them settle.

These words remind me of the quiet power of positivity—how an uplifted mind can steady us through rough waters, how choosing hope helps us see the world not as bleak or burdened but as layered with possibility.

Change your thinking, change your life. Such a simple idea. Such a profound truth.

I take a sip of coffee and glance out the window. It is now light enough to see a man walking his golden retriever, the dog’s tail a happy metronome against the white snow. Life goes on—softly, steadily, beautifully.

And so, I walk into this day… carrying the star’s reminder, the child’s wonder, and the belief that hope is never lost—it simply waits for us to look up.

"At any moment, the universe can hand you back the star you wished upon as a child."  ~Unknown


~Wylddane

The storm arrived in the night, a whisper turned to a roar. By dawn the world had vanished beneath a thick billow of white—snow heaped against windowsills, the pines sagging under its weight, the road erased as though some ancient hand had swept it clean.

Benjamin stood at the kitchen window of his cottage, coffee in hand, watching the flakes swirl like wandering spirits. An older man now, steady of heart and gentle of soul, he lived a quiet life deep in the woods—a life he had cultivated with intention. Books lined the walls like old companions. Music, fine and thoughtful, filled the corners of the cottage. The great stone fireplace was the hearth of both warmth and memory. Friends who had become family visited often, and family who had become friends stayed close in his heart. Yes, it was a good life—perhaps quieter than the one he had once imagined for himself, but no less rich.

He was meant to spend this Thanksgiving with those dear ones. A long drive. A shared feast. Laughter floating like candlelight. But with last night’s early-season blizzard sweeping through the Northwoods, travel was out of the question. The roads were closed. Drifts were already waist-deep. The cottage, lovely as it was, had become an island.

Benjamin sighed, not in sadness but in a kind of unmoored bemusement. “Well,” he murmured, “what does one do with a day meant for gathering when one is suddenly…not gathered?”

He evaluated his larder. A few potatoes. A basket of apples. A small ham. A half-finished bottle of wine. Not a feast by any stretch, but enough to make something of the day if he tried. Perhaps, he thought, a quiet Thanksgiving wouldn’t be so terrible. A little reflection. A little gratitude. A little peace.

Yet the Universe had other plans.

Sometime near midday, a knock echoed across the wood-planked rooms. Then another. Benjamin opened the door to find two neighbors—snow-dusted, breathless, grinning. Their own plans had been cancelled; their own homes felt too quiet. So they had trudged through the drifts, arms laden with casseroles, bread, pies, and—bless them—a bottle of good wine.

“Thought you might enjoy some company,” they said.

And just like that, the wee cottage transformed. The fire crackled merrily, throwing golden light across the walls. Food covered the table—unexpected abundance. Stories were shared. Laughter rose like a flock of migrating geese. Even the old books on the shelves seemed to lean forward, listening.

One neighbor played the violin—soft tunes at first, then joyful reels. Another found a deck of cards. Someone toasted to unexpected blessings. Someone else added, “Sometimes the best holidays are the ones we never planned.”

Benjamin, his heart full, realized something quietly profound: he had lost nothing by staying home. Instead, the day had widened, expanded, shimmered. What had begun as disappointment had become one of the most meaningful Thanksgivings of his life. Gratitude had not arrived with fanfare; it had come disguised as snowflakes, footsteps, shared food, and the deep, bright warmth of human presence.

It was as though the Universe had whispered, “Look again. There is always more than you think.”

* * * * * * * * * *

And now, I sit at my desk in the wee cottage of my own. Dawn’s emerging light casts a soft, magical glow across the November morning. There is no storm on this quiet morning, though I can feel it as I stir from this imaginative story I have just lived within. I take a sip of coffee—hot, rich, comforting—and it brightens the moment the way only morning coffee can.

Somewhere in the quiet, I realize I am listening to Gianella’s Flute Concerto No. 1 in D, delicate and uplifting, its notes drifting through the room like feathered blessings.

I think of Benjamin. I think of his snowed-in Thanksgiving. I think of unexpected miracles, and how gratitude often hides within them, waiting to be seen.

And with these blessings in my own heart—music, warmth, light, reflection—I begin this new day.

* * * * * * * * * *

​“In ordinary moments, the extraordinary waits quietly to be noticed.”  ~Anon

~Wylddane

“It is almost impossible to watch a sunset and not dream.”   ~Unknown

I took this picture many years ago from Talbot Avenue in Pacifica, California—an ordinary evening made extraordinary by the sky’s soft blaze and the hush that settled over the sea. But even now, across time and memory, that moment lives on—etched in light and silence.

Sunrises and sunsets have always felt like secret messages from the universe—wordless transmissions reminding me that time is not linear, but lyrical. A sunrise announces: Begin again. A sunset whispers: You have done enough. Rest now.

Each one is both an ending and a beginning. A threshold. A veil.

What is a sunset but a celestial bow? A quiet gesture of surrender and beauty, unafraid to let go. And what is a sunrise but the universe drawing breath, readying itself for creation?

Even now, as I gaze at this image, I feel the paradox of infinite peace: the sun setting here is rising somewhere else. The light we lose becomes the light someone else receives. We are never truly in darkness, for we are held in a web of radiant becoming.

There is a magic in that—one no clock can measure. Just as the ocean reflects the sky, and the trees lean toward the light, we too are part of a divine choreography. Each sunset is a benediction. Each sunrise a summoning.

And yes, as the unknown poet once said: “It is almost impossible to watch a sunset and not dream.” I would add: it is almost impossible to witness one and not remember who we really are—light, breath, rhythm, soul.
​
This was a wondrous day. Not because it was perfect, but because it was. And because in the golden hush of its ending, I was reminded once again of the miracle of being.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Somewhere, the sun is always rising. Somewhere, the sky is always dreaming.”  ~Wylddane

~Wylddane

Although I cherish my early morning coffee garden walks—those quiet moments of dew-kissed leaves, cardinal songs, and steam rising into dawn—there is nothing quite like a walk along the ocean. The garden is intimate; the sea is infinite.

It is the sound of the waves, I think, that touches my soul. The rhythmic hush and pull, the eternal conversation between sea and shore. A few steps onto the sand, and my mind grows still—empty yet utterly receptive. The ocean doesn't ask questions; it answers them without words.

Evening walks were my favorite. I’d wander the familiar curve of Rockaway Beach in Pacifica, CA, as the sun began its slow, golden descent into the horizon. The cliffs turned crimson. The sea shimmered with a thousand brushstrokes of light. As the day exhaled its final breath, I often paused and realized something beautiful: somewhere beyond that glowing line where sea meets sky, a new day was already beginning.

I would wonder about that. I would think of the people across the curvature of Earth—waking, stretching, pouring coffee, stepping out into their own morning light—as I said goodbye to mine. The globe spins in seamless rhythm, yet every sunset feels personal, every dawn a whispered miracle. Somewhere, someone else is beginning again, even as I am letting go.

It is almost impossible to witness a sunset and not dream.

And so I sit here now—though the northwoods are sticky and fogged with summer humidity, though the map says I’m hundreds of miles away—my spirit is once again on that weathered bench at Rockaway Beach. The colors before me melt from turquoise to flame, from orange to indigo. The waves keep time like a lullaby. I am home, not in place but in presence.

Sunsets are reminders. Of endings. Of beginnings. Of how, in the most luminous and fleeting moments, we are made whole. They ask nothing of us except stillness, reverence, and a quiet acknowledgment of the eternal.

Every sunset carries the promise of a new dawn.

And every step along the ocean's edge is a return to peace, to magic, to self.

 * * * * * * * * * *

"The sun sets to remind us that even the most brilliant light must rest—so it can rise again, renewed."  ~Unknown

~Wylddane




Ask ChatGPT

This is where the world breathes deeper.

Where the long ribbon of trail unspools from the valley like a whispered invitation into the sky. This picture—taken years ago at the mouth of the Sneath Lane entrance to Sweeney Ridge—is not merely an image. It is a threshold. A memory. A prayer in sunlight and shadow.

When I lived in Pacifica, California, I was blessed to be close to this trail—this quiet path carved along the ancient bones of the San Andreas fault. Here, where tectonic plates whisper secrets beneath the soil, and fog drapes itself lovingly over eucalyptus groves like a memory of something once lost and now returned. I would walk here often, drawn not just by the geography but by the solace it offered—a balm for the soul and a merging of spirit with earth.

Each step was a meditation.
Each breath, an offering.

The paved path, gentle in its slope, carried me past rustling golden grasses, wind-kissed ridges, and the patient silhouettes of hawks wheeling silently above. The occasional cyclist might pass, but the real companionship came from the land itself. From the earth rising and falling like a slow, ancient breath. From the call of unseen songbirds hidden in the brush. From the scent of eucalyptus, sharp and clean, mingling with salt winds rising from the ocean beyond.

Midway up the trail was a grove of those tall, whispering trees—sentinels of peace. Often, they stood in silence beneath a veil of mist, softening the edges of reality. There, I could pause and simply… be. Wrapped in fog, surrounded by stillness, I felt myself dissolve into something greater. The boundary between self and world disappeared.

And then—emerging from the mists to the summit—light would open like a revelation.

The panoramic vista: Pacific Ocean, silver and eternal to the west. San Francisco Bay, cradled and glimmering to the east. Time would pause. The breath of the world would hold. And in that moment, I would feel it—completion.

Some trails are only about distance and elevation.
But Sweeney Ridge was about presence.

Here, the past walked with me—the memory of the Portola Expedition in 1769, standing near the same overlook, glimpsing the Bay for the first time. And the future, too—seen in the clear air, in the resilience of blooming things, in the sacred hush of wind through dry grass. It reminded me, always, of the circle of life.

The creatures below and above the soil.
The waters glinting in distant lakes.
The hawks and songbirds overhead.
The wildness of mountain lions, quietly watching from beyond our knowing.
All part of the balance. All part of the same breath.

I give thanks—for the trail that carried my thoughts into the sky.
For the eucalyptus fog that taught me stillness.
For the golden grasses that knew how to bend and not break.
For the ancient stones beneath the path that reminded me: we are not separate from the earth. We are of it.
​
I walk in meditation.
I sit in reverence.
I bless the water, the air, the growing things, and the sacred silence that speaks louder than words.

And in that sacred walk, I came home to myself.

* * * * * * * * * * 
"There is a way that nature speaks, that land speaks. Most of the time we are simply not patient enough, quiet enough, to pay attention to the story."  ~Linda Hogan

~Wylddane

Although it is a brilliant, cool, and sunlit late July morning, I find myself foregoing my usual garden walk. My steaming mug of coffee, normally cupped in hand as I meander barefoot among lilies and rabbits, is instead cradled beside me here indoors, accompanied not by birdsong, but by the delicate voice of a violin.

Joshua Bell’s interpretation of Dvořák’s Song to the Moon fills the room—each note silken, each phrase a sigh. Though I do not know the original words, the music writes its own poetry into my heart. It is longing and tenderness. It is memory. It is love that spans lifetimes.

And so, despite the golden sun rising above the trees, I find myself staring inward... upward... moonward. I am a child again, gazing out a bedroom window at the great glowing pearl in the night sky. I remember making wishes—secret ones. Wishes for love. For joy. For understanding. For someone, somewhere, to see me and understand me in return.

But this morning, I am not wishing. I am remembering. I am feeling. The music wraps around me like moonlight in early dawn, and I realize I no longer need to ask for anything. The blessings of my life are already here.

I can feel the moon’s pull—not as a plea, but as a presence. It is the part of me that believes in beauty, even in sorrow. The part that remembers love is both dream and reality. That happiness, even fleeting, is real and enough.

Even now, with sunlight glinting off the rim of my coffee cup, I feel the moon. And in that quiet place inside where music and memory meet, I am whole.
​
~Wylddane

There is something quietly symbolic about a wooded path, especially one softened by recent rain, overgrown with summer's green abundance. The photo I took the other day along the northern reaches of the St. Croix River captures such a moment — a narrow trail winding forward through ferns, grasses, and trees, inviting me to step in without revealing what lies beyond the bend. It is a familiar feeling, not only in the forest, but in life itself.

This morning, rain falls gently on the northwoods. Instead of walking through my garden, coffee in hand, I’m inside, listening to the soft symphony of rain through an open window. The birds continue their morning chorus as if to remind me that even in stillness, the world moves forward. It’s the perfect setting for reflection — and today, my mind drifts to decisions.

Someone very wise once told me that life is about decisions — and that even not making a decision is, in fact, a decision. Where I sit now, where any of us sit, is the cumulative result of every choice made: the deliberate, the impulsive, the reluctant, and even the ones we thought were made for us. Together, they form the landscape of our lives, just like the forest floor shaped by countless fallen leaves, weathered roots, and meandering streams.

There are decisions I look back on with pride and gratitude. Others — well, there are regrets. And that same wise soul said something else that stuck with me: If you have no regrets, you’re not truly awake. Not truly human. Regret doesn’t mean failure; it means feeling, growing, evolving. It means you cared. It means you tried.

Each path we take becomes part of us. Some lead to unexpected beauty, others to loss, and some to nothing more than a clearing where we pause, reflect, and begin again. The paths chosen — and even those we walked away from — carve our character. They’re the hidden contours beneath our skin, the echoes in our laughter, the pauses in our voice when we recall the past.

There are, of course, those small decisions that pass unnoticed in the moment: a conversation we almost didn’t have, a book we nearly didn’t read, a walk we almost skipped. And yet, how often do these seemingly insignificant steps become the most transformative?

So today, as the rain nourishes the woods beyond my window and memory stirs with the hush of falling drops, I think of the many paths I’ve walked — and those yet to come. I think of choice as a sacred act. A risk. A whisper of hope. A step forward.
​
And I feel gratitude — even for the crooked, muddy, uncertain trails. For they led me here. To this morning. To this moment of peace, reflection, and the soft warmth of coffee in my hands.

“We are our choices.”
— Jean-Paul Sartre

~Wylddane

My coffee tastes especially good this morning.

I make it the same way every day—same beans, same scoop, same mug—but today it’s different. Richer, deeper, more comforting. Why is that? Perhaps it's not the coffee that changed, but me. My mood. The moment. The way the world feels as it drifts slowly past my window, cloaked in fog and wrapped in the hush of a gray morning.

Outside, the fog is thick and humid, moving like a breath across the glass. The trees, barely visible through the blur, seem to be holding their own kind of meditation. And inside, I find myself thinking of cause and effect. For every action, there is a reaction—an immutable law of the universe that governs both the stars and the stirrings of the human heart. Every word we speak, every glance we cast, every choice we make sends ripples outward.

This thought leads me to another truth—one I revisit often, especially in uncertain times:

We cannot control what happens to us, but we can control how we respond.

This phrase is simple, but like the best ideas, its power lies in its simplicity. We do not control the storm, but we choose whether to find shelter or dance in the rain. We do not control the fog, but we decide whether to curse its dampness or marvel at its mystery.

The power of the mind is tremendous. I believe that what we focus on, expands. It’s another kind of action and reaction, isn't it? If we focus on fear, fear grows. If we focus on anger, anger multiplies. But if we begin—quietly, gently—to focus on kindness, on beauty, on love… those too begin to bloom in abundance.

In these dark and unnerving times, it's easy to be swept away by the tide of dread. But here’s a radical thought: for every “bad” thing, there are ten good things. Small things, maybe—but not insignificant. The smell of coffee. The warmth of a fire. The sound of rain against the window. A friend’s unexpected text. A dog’s sigh as it curls into sleep. These are the anchors. The evidence that not all is lost.

Let’s be clear—this is not about denial. I am not suggesting we turn away, play pretend, or live in the land of Pollyanna. We must stay informed. We must know the shape of the world if we are to help reshape it. But let that be information, not identity. Let it be the background music, not the main melody. Let our focus be on what we are building—within ourselves, and within this world.

So today, I sip this better-than-usual coffee. I watch the fog drift. I sit with thoughts of cause and effect, of fear and focus, of storms and stillness. I do not know what will come. But I know this much: I choose how I meet it.
​
And this morning, I choose hope.

“Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief.
Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now.
You are not obligated to complete the work,
but neither are you free to abandon it.”  ~The Talmud

~Wylddane

It is a beautiful summer morning in the garden. The air is still, as if listening. I stroll, coffee in hand, stopping here and there amid the riot of color—a kaleidoscope of coneflowers, lilies, clematis, and all manner of green, alive things. Birdsong floats like ribbons through the air, weaving itself into the tapestry of dawn.

A coneflower catches my eye, radiant and unbothered. The golden-pink petals lean slightly, basking in sunlight that, only hours from now, will slip behind a distant hill on the other side of the world. I pause, and in that pause I remember: the sun that rises to greet me is the very same that whispers goodnight to someone else.

In this simple garden, I am immersed in wonder. The rabbit that visits often is nibbling clover in the shade.

The black kitty with white paws stretches luxuriously beneath the hydrangea, glancing at me with those eyes that seem to know more than they let on. The three of us, in shared silence, make peace with the morning.

And I think of transcendental idealism—of Kant, who argued that space and time are not qualities of the world itself, but of the way we experience it. That all we know of reality are appearances filtered through the mind’s lens. The flower I see may not be a flower as it truly is—it is my perception, my arrangement of color and form and memory and feeling. If that is so, then this moment, this rabbit, this kitty, even this coffee—they are not real in any ultimate sense. And yet…

They are everything.

I drift from blossom to shadow, from sunlight to memory, and thoughts arrive without knocking. I hear echoes of Dr. Wayne Dyer’s voice: “Expand your reality to the point where you pursue what you love doing and excel at it.” Is this the path? Is this garden morning—this moment of wandering presence—part of that pursuit? I do not know.

But I am.
I am this breath.
I am this gaze upon petal and leaf.
I am this curious, grateful soul wandering barefoot among green miracles.
I am not separate from this garden—I am this garden.
I am not apart from the birdsong—I am the song.
I am not watching the light—I am the light.

And maybe, just maybe, the lines between the real and the perceived are not boundaries at all, but brushstrokes in a larger painting. Whether divergent or convergent, the thoughts themselves are not the point—the wonder is.
​
It is, in every way, a grand and glorious day to be alive.

“You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.”  ~Rumi

~Wylddane