"Stillwater Gleam" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
A short walk beyond the quiet village of Lone Pine, where snow-draped pines stood like patient sentinels and the forest pressed close with a knowing hush, lay a small, secluded lake known to a few locals as Stillwater Gleam.
It was not marked on any map.
It didn’t need to be.
Fed by hidden springs and sheltered from the harshest winds, Stillwater Gleam had, for as long as anyone could remember, remained open through even the coldest northwoods winters. Steam sometimes lifted from its dark surface at dawn, as if the lake itself were breathing. Old-timers claimed it listened. Children said it remembered.
On this particular Christmas Eve, the cold arrived sharper than usual—clean, crystalline, and absolute. The kind of cold that creaked trees and made the snow sing underfoot. And for the first time in living memory, Stillwater Gleam began to change.
Liam noticed it first.
He had grown up in Lone Pine and knew the woods as one knows an old friend—the bends in the trail, the hollow logs, the places where chickadees always gathered. He had come out that evening not for any grand reason, only because Christmas Eve had a way of stirring something restless and hopeful in him. A walk, he thought, might settle his thoughts.
When he reached the lake, he stopped short.
A skin of ice had formed along the edges—clear as glass, not cloudy or white. Moonlight slipped through it and refracted in strange, quiet ways. The lake did not freeze all at once. It seemed to move, almost gracefully, the ice spreading in slow arcs and curves, as if guided by an unseen hand.
Then Liam saw the lights.
Tiny points—no bigger than sparks—appeared beneath the ice, drifting and circling like captured stars. They pulsed softly, gathering, separating, gathering again.
A voice reached him—not loud, not startling—but as gentle as falling snow.
“The season closes what must rest,” it said, “but it never closes the light.”
Liam turned and saw her standing across the lake, half-shadow, half-moonlight: the woman from the far edge of town, the one people spoke of in lowered voices. Some called her Willow’s widow. Others said she simply belonged more to the woods than to the village.
“The lake is remembering,” she said, meeting his gaze. “But memory needs kindness to hold its shape.”
Liam thought of Lone Pine—the quiet houses, the darkened storefronts, the long winter ahead. He thought of neighbors carrying more worry than firewood. He thought of how warmth was more than heat.
And without quite realizing it, he whispered,
“I wish for light enough to last.”
The motes beneath the ice flared brighter.
They spun and gathered until a shape emerged—an unmistakable one. Beneath the lake’s surface, formed entirely of light and crystal clarity, stood the outline of a Christmas tree, its branches etched in ice, its presence radiant and calm. At its crown, one brilliant point settled into a steady, unwavering star.
Warmth spread—not sudden, not startling—but sure.
Back in Lone Pine, chimneys stirred to life. Hearths burned fuller. A quiet cheer—unspoken but unmistakable—moved from house to house. The night smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon, as if memory itself had learned how to cook.
By morning, Stillwater Gleam lay frozen, smooth and silent, the tree already gone—though something lingered.
From that Christmas onward, the lake froze once each year. No lights were ever quite the same, no shapes repeated exactly. But those who walked there spoke of a certainty they carried home with them.
That light, once remembered, does not forget us.
* * * * * * * * * *
The simple, distinct notes of Bach’s English Suite No. 5, Anderszewski at the piano, gently wake me from the shores of Stillwater Gleam.
Suddenly, I am no longer standing at that quiet lake beyond Lone Pine.
I am here—at the wee cottage in the woods.
Outside, the cold is fierce, the kind that demands respect. Inside, there is warmth: a steady fire, a steaming mug of coffee, the quiet companionship of early morning. These moments feel both simple and immeasurable.
I glance out the window, its glass etched and decorated by Jack Frost. Dawn is arriving softly now—peach and copper brushing the eastern sky. The bare branches of the deciduous trees frame the light like delicate calligraphy.
I think of these words from Dr. Wayne Dyer:
“Take time to open your mind to the fascinating mystery and uncertainty we all experience.”
Mystery.
Uncertainty.
Not as things to fear—but to appreciate.
As the piano continues, I realize that perhaps this is the quiet work of winter mornings: to remind us that even when the world feels frozen, something luminous is always forming beneath the surface.
And so I begin this day--
with warmth,
with wonder,
and with light enough to last.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Even in the deepest cold, there are places where light remembers how to wait.”
~Wylddane
It was not marked on any map.
It didn’t need to be.
Fed by hidden springs and sheltered from the harshest winds, Stillwater Gleam had, for as long as anyone could remember, remained open through even the coldest northwoods winters. Steam sometimes lifted from its dark surface at dawn, as if the lake itself were breathing. Old-timers claimed it listened. Children said it remembered.
On this particular Christmas Eve, the cold arrived sharper than usual—clean, crystalline, and absolute. The kind of cold that creaked trees and made the snow sing underfoot. And for the first time in living memory, Stillwater Gleam began to change.
Liam noticed it first.
He had grown up in Lone Pine and knew the woods as one knows an old friend—the bends in the trail, the hollow logs, the places where chickadees always gathered. He had come out that evening not for any grand reason, only because Christmas Eve had a way of stirring something restless and hopeful in him. A walk, he thought, might settle his thoughts.
When he reached the lake, he stopped short.
A skin of ice had formed along the edges—clear as glass, not cloudy or white. Moonlight slipped through it and refracted in strange, quiet ways. The lake did not freeze all at once. It seemed to move, almost gracefully, the ice spreading in slow arcs and curves, as if guided by an unseen hand.
Then Liam saw the lights.
Tiny points—no bigger than sparks—appeared beneath the ice, drifting and circling like captured stars. They pulsed softly, gathering, separating, gathering again.
A voice reached him—not loud, not startling—but as gentle as falling snow.
“The season closes what must rest,” it said, “but it never closes the light.”
Liam turned and saw her standing across the lake, half-shadow, half-moonlight: the woman from the far edge of town, the one people spoke of in lowered voices. Some called her Willow’s widow. Others said she simply belonged more to the woods than to the village.
“The lake is remembering,” she said, meeting his gaze. “But memory needs kindness to hold its shape.”
Liam thought of Lone Pine—the quiet houses, the darkened storefronts, the long winter ahead. He thought of neighbors carrying more worry than firewood. He thought of how warmth was more than heat.
And without quite realizing it, he whispered,
“I wish for light enough to last.”
The motes beneath the ice flared brighter.
They spun and gathered until a shape emerged—an unmistakable one. Beneath the lake’s surface, formed entirely of light and crystal clarity, stood the outline of a Christmas tree, its branches etched in ice, its presence radiant and calm. At its crown, one brilliant point settled into a steady, unwavering star.
Warmth spread—not sudden, not startling—but sure.
Back in Lone Pine, chimneys stirred to life. Hearths burned fuller. A quiet cheer—unspoken but unmistakable—moved from house to house. The night smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon, as if memory itself had learned how to cook.
By morning, Stillwater Gleam lay frozen, smooth and silent, the tree already gone—though something lingered.
From that Christmas onward, the lake froze once each year. No lights were ever quite the same, no shapes repeated exactly. But those who walked there spoke of a certainty they carried home with them.
That light, once remembered, does not forget us.
* * * * * * * * * *
The simple, distinct notes of Bach’s English Suite No. 5, Anderszewski at the piano, gently wake me from the shores of Stillwater Gleam.
Suddenly, I am no longer standing at that quiet lake beyond Lone Pine.
I am here—at the wee cottage in the woods.
Outside, the cold is fierce, the kind that demands respect. Inside, there is warmth: a steady fire, a steaming mug of coffee, the quiet companionship of early morning. These moments feel both simple and immeasurable.
I glance out the window, its glass etched and decorated by Jack Frost. Dawn is arriving softly now—peach and copper brushing the eastern sky. The bare branches of the deciduous trees frame the light like delicate calligraphy.
I think of these words from Dr. Wayne Dyer:
“Take time to open your mind to the fascinating mystery and uncertainty we all experience.”
Mystery.
Uncertainty.
Not as things to fear—but to appreciate.
As the piano continues, I realize that perhaps this is the quiet work of winter mornings: to remind us that even when the world feels frozen, something luminous is always forming beneath the surface.
And so I begin this day--
with warmth,
with wonder,
and with light enough to last.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Even in the deepest cold, there are places where light remembers how to wait.”
~Wylddane
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