"A Stream in the Winter Forest" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC(
In the heart of the December forest, where the cold had settled in with deliberate patience, a narrow stream continued its ancient work. Snow lay deep on either side of its winding path, the grasses bowed and gilded with frost, the trees standing bare and watchful like old sentinels. Ice formed along the edges of the water—delicate lacework that caught the pale light—but the stream itself never stopped moving.
It whispered as it flowed.
The sound was subtle, easily missed by those who hurried past, but anyone who paused long enough could hear it: a soft, persistent murmur, as if the water were telling itself a story it had told a thousand times before and would tell a thousand times again. It spoke of springs and thaws, of summer rains and fallen leaves, of long winters endured and brighter days patiently awaited.
Here and there, the ice cracked and drifted, making room for the current beneath. The stream did not fight the cold; it simply adapted, slipping through narrow channels, shaping its way forward moment by moment. Where it met resistance, it curved. Where it found openness, it widened. Always moving. Always present.
A deer had crossed earlier that morning, its delicate tracks stitched into the snow beside the bank. A chickadee flitted down for a sip, then vanished into the trees. The forest noticed everything, but demanded nothing.
The stream flowed on, unconcerned with yesterday’s bends or tomorrow’s turns. It carried no memory of where it had been—only awareness of where it was.
And that was enough.
* * * * * * * * * *
Outside, it is a frigid December morning. The kind that makes the air feel crystalline and sharp, the kind that stings your cheeks and wakes you fully. It’s a small price to pay for living here, in these magical northwoods, where even the cold feels honest.
Inside, my steaming Christmas mug of coffee is my quiet companion—yet also a necessary one—during these early hours. The warmth rises, fragrant and reassuring, and I wrap my hands around it with gratitude. The stereo is tuned to KDFC, a familiar bridge to another place and time, and Chopin’s Fantasie in F minor dances through the room. Its lively notes seem to enhance the moment… and perhaps enhance the effect of the coffee as well. I smile at the thought.
I think of that winter stream—how it moves without resistance, how it adapts without complaint. And I think of Eckhart Tolle’s words:
“If your mind carries a heavy burden of past, you will experience more of the same. The past perpetuates itself through lack of presence. The quality of your consciousness at this moment is what shapes the future.”
Just like the stream in the December forest, my thoughts are flowing—quietly, persistently—shaping the day before me. I am reminded that presence is not loud or dramatic. It is simple awareness. The choice to notice the warmth of the mug, the music in the air, the light beginning to lift outside the window.
And so I start this day gently. Mindful of my thoughts. Aware of my consciousness. Letting it guide me, moment by moment, like water through winter woods—shaping today… and, maybe, tomorrow.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Like water in winter, I move forward by staying present.”
~Wylddane
It whispered as it flowed.
The sound was subtle, easily missed by those who hurried past, but anyone who paused long enough could hear it: a soft, persistent murmur, as if the water were telling itself a story it had told a thousand times before and would tell a thousand times again. It spoke of springs and thaws, of summer rains and fallen leaves, of long winters endured and brighter days patiently awaited.
Here and there, the ice cracked and drifted, making room for the current beneath. The stream did not fight the cold; it simply adapted, slipping through narrow channels, shaping its way forward moment by moment. Where it met resistance, it curved. Where it found openness, it widened. Always moving. Always present.
A deer had crossed earlier that morning, its delicate tracks stitched into the snow beside the bank. A chickadee flitted down for a sip, then vanished into the trees. The forest noticed everything, but demanded nothing.
The stream flowed on, unconcerned with yesterday’s bends or tomorrow’s turns. It carried no memory of where it had been—only awareness of where it was.
And that was enough.
* * * * * * * * * *
Outside, it is a frigid December morning. The kind that makes the air feel crystalline and sharp, the kind that stings your cheeks and wakes you fully. It’s a small price to pay for living here, in these magical northwoods, where even the cold feels honest.
Inside, my steaming Christmas mug of coffee is my quiet companion—yet also a necessary one—during these early hours. The warmth rises, fragrant and reassuring, and I wrap my hands around it with gratitude. The stereo is tuned to KDFC, a familiar bridge to another place and time, and Chopin’s Fantasie in F minor dances through the room. Its lively notes seem to enhance the moment… and perhaps enhance the effect of the coffee as well. I smile at the thought.
I think of that winter stream—how it moves without resistance, how it adapts without complaint. And I think of Eckhart Tolle’s words:
“If your mind carries a heavy burden of past, you will experience more of the same. The past perpetuates itself through lack of presence. The quality of your consciousness at this moment is what shapes the future.”
Just like the stream in the December forest, my thoughts are flowing—quietly, persistently—shaping the day before me. I am reminded that presence is not loud or dramatic. It is simple awareness. The choice to notice the warmth of the mug, the music in the air, the light beginning to lift outside the window.
And so I start this day gently. Mindful of my thoughts. Aware of my consciousness. Letting it guide me, moment by moment, like water through winter woods—shaping today… and, maybe, tomorrow.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Like water in winter, I move forward by staying present.”
~Wylddane
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