"Morning Greetings" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Omigosh, the coffee tastes good this morning.
How is it that one can prepare coffee the same way every day—measure the grounds, fill the reservoir, press the same button—and yet, some days, it tastes like a blessing brewed by angels? It’s a smiling mystery, one I choose not to question, but simply to savor.
Outside, the day stretches awake under a blanket of gray clouds. The forecast teases rain and thunder, and the dew point chart places this morning firmly in the “sticky” category. Still, as I wander through my garden, a sliver of sunlight escapes the overcast sky and kisses the clouds, giving them a soft pink blush. August—neither summer nor fall, always in-between—offers its own peculiar kind of beauty.
And this morning, the phlox are blooming—radiant, bright, and in hues I’ve never seen before in my garden. Shades of magenta and fuchsia that feel new, almost enchanted. Is it the rain? The soil? Some secret whispered from the sky? I don’t know. But there’s something quietly miraculous about it. A gift I didn’t expect, but deeply welcome.
And as always, I am not alone. My companions arrive like old friends who need no introduction: the ever-faithful cottontail rabbit, the neighbor’s tuxedo cat with its quiet dignity, and this morning, a welcome addition—an old friend in feline form. He’s a big boy with Siamese coloring, his movements now slower, more deliberate. Age has settled into his bones, but there’s wisdom in the way he watches the world. We share the moment together, the four of us, each in our own way greeting this new day.
My thoughts are loose today, untethered. They drift like petals on a breeze, landing here and there without any particular reason. And that, too, is part of the magic of mornings like this—nothing needs to make sense. It’s enough just to be.
Lately, I've found myself listening to the Patsy Cline Station on Spotify. The music of my childhood, if not quite my youth—songs that played on old car radios and crackled through tiny kitchen speakers. Patsy Cline. The Platters. Frankie Avalon. Connie Francis. Bobby Vinton. Doris Day. Each tune is a thread in the vast tapestry of memory.
Funny how memories work. Some arrive with a whisper, others with the force of a flood. This morning, they tiptoe in with the melodies—images of riding in my brother’s car, the windows down, a song playing. Sock hops in high school gyms. The faces of friends and classmates, rising like mist, then vanishing again. Ghosts of laughter. Echoes of dreams.
They are not there. And yet they are. They are the warp and weft of my soul, the subtle stitching that makes me who I am.
I’m not a religious person, but I am deeply spiritual. And that makes all the difference. Because these morning walks are sacred—an altar of dew-touched leaves, birdsong, and the hush before the storm. I am fully present here, but somehow also reaching back into the past… and leaning just slightly into the future.
Perhaps it’s like that moment when the morning sun tints the clouds pink—there, and then gone. Glorious in its brevity.
What will be, will be. And another day begins.
Time for a refill. Before this perfect cup of coffee, too, slips into the arms of memory.
* * * * * * * * * *
“We do not remember days, we remember moments.” ~Cesare Pavese
~Wylddane
How is it that one can prepare coffee the same way every day—measure the grounds, fill the reservoir, press the same button—and yet, some days, it tastes like a blessing brewed by angels? It’s a smiling mystery, one I choose not to question, but simply to savor.
Outside, the day stretches awake under a blanket of gray clouds. The forecast teases rain and thunder, and the dew point chart places this morning firmly in the “sticky” category. Still, as I wander through my garden, a sliver of sunlight escapes the overcast sky and kisses the clouds, giving them a soft pink blush. August—neither summer nor fall, always in-between—offers its own peculiar kind of beauty.
And this morning, the phlox are blooming—radiant, bright, and in hues I’ve never seen before in my garden. Shades of magenta and fuchsia that feel new, almost enchanted. Is it the rain? The soil? Some secret whispered from the sky? I don’t know. But there’s something quietly miraculous about it. A gift I didn’t expect, but deeply welcome.
And as always, I am not alone. My companions arrive like old friends who need no introduction: the ever-faithful cottontail rabbit, the neighbor’s tuxedo cat with its quiet dignity, and this morning, a welcome addition—an old friend in feline form. He’s a big boy with Siamese coloring, his movements now slower, more deliberate. Age has settled into his bones, but there’s wisdom in the way he watches the world. We share the moment together, the four of us, each in our own way greeting this new day.
My thoughts are loose today, untethered. They drift like petals on a breeze, landing here and there without any particular reason. And that, too, is part of the magic of mornings like this—nothing needs to make sense. It’s enough just to be.
Lately, I've found myself listening to the Patsy Cline Station on Spotify. The music of my childhood, if not quite my youth—songs that played on old car radios and crackled through tiny kitchen speakers. Patsy Cline. The Platters. Frankie Avalon. Connie Francis. Bobby Vinton. Doris Day. Each tune is a thread in the vast tapestry of memory.
Funny how memories work. Some arrive with a whisper, others with the force of a flood. This morning, they tiptoe in with the melodies—images of riding in my brother’s car, the windows down, a song playing. Sock hops in high school gyms. The faces of friends and classmates, rising like mist, then vanishing again. Ghosts of laughter. Echoes of dreams.
They are not there. And yet they are. They are the warp and weft of my soul, the subtle stitching that makes me who I am.
I’m not a religious person, but I am deeply spiritual. And that makes all the difference. Because these morning walks are sacred—an altar of dew-touched leaves, birdsong, and the hush before the storm. I am fully present here, but somehow also reaching back into the past… and leaning just slightly into the future.
Perhaps it’s like that moment when the morning sun tints the clouds pink—there, and then gone. Glorious in its brevity.
What will be, will be. And another day begins.
Time for a refill. Before this perfect cup of coffee, too, slips into the arms of memory.
* * * * * * * * * *
“We do not remember days, we remember moments.” ~Cesare Pavese
~Wylddane
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