"December Dreams" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Liam could never say later whether he had fallen asleep by the fire or whether the fire had fallen asleep around him. What he did know—what he felt as surely as breath—was that one moment he sat in his old armchair in the wee cottage, listening to the gentle sighs of the December wind, and the next he was standing in the middle of a city that shimmered like frost-lit glass.
Snow drifted down in slow, deliberate spirals, catching the golden glow of lamplight. People hurried along the sidewalks bundled in heavy coats, yet every face he passed seemed softened by wonder, as though each person carried a secret of joy just waiting to be spoken aloud. A woman dressed in silver paused beside him and whispered, “Follow the falling star, Liam,” before melting into the crowd as if she were made of mist.
And overhead—impossibly—there was a falling star. Not plummeting, not burning out, but drifting like a lantern released by a gentle hand. He stepped after it without thinking, and with each step the bustling city softened, then blurred, then dissolved into a moonlit forest.
Pine branches bowed under fresh snow. The air smelled of cedar and quiet. Liam heard the faint crunch of footsteps and turned—only to find a deer standing beside him, calm and unafraid, its breath a soft ghost in the air. Behind it, a fox watched him with bright, knowing eyes. When Liam took a step forward, both animals turned and trotted deeper into the woods, pausing often to be sure he followed.
But when he crossed between two leaning birches, the world shifted again.
The forest brightened. Lights—small spheres of winter-blue fire—bobbed between the trees. Mystical beings, neither fully human nor fully spirit, emerged from the shadows: tall, graceful figures draped in shimmering cloaks of snowflakes; tiny winged creatures whose laughter sounded like icicles chiming in the wind. They circled him, not menacing but curious, their forms flickering like candle flame.
“You walk between worlds, Liam,” one of them said, voice as soft as first snow. “In dreams we remember what waking often forgets.”
Another pointed toward the falling star, now hovering above a small frozen pond. Liam stepped onto the ice, which glowed from within as though lit by ancient moonlight. Beneath its surface he saw scenes from his own life—moments of love, sorrow, courage, hope—drifting by like reflections in a dream.
At first he felt startled, then exposed, then… comforted. It was all there: the roads he had walked, the lives he had touched, the dreams he had dared, abandoned, reclaimed.
The mystical beings gathered around him in a gentle circle.
“Dreams,” they whispered, “are not fantasies. They are maps.”
The deer stepped forward. The fox sat at his side. Above them the falling star pulsed warmly, almost like a heartbeat.
And then—just as Liam reached out toward that starlit glow—the forest, the city, the beings, all of it folded into brilliant white light.
He awoke in his armchair, breath catching softly in his throat.
The fire still glowed gold. Snow still whispered against the windows. He rested his hand over his heart and smiled.
“Once upon a time,” he murmured, “I had a December dream.”
And for the rest of his life, he would remember.
* * * * * * * * * *
It is a cold gray morning in the northwoods. The clouds hang low and heavy, promising a wintry day ahead. Yet the wee cottage is warm and comfortable, cradle-soft with its familiar December quiet. Diane Upshaw’s beautiful voice rises from the speakers, giving soul to her Spanish carol—lifting me peacefully and happily from the last wisps of my own December dream.
I cradle my coffee, savor that first deep, comforting sip. All is well.
As her voice drifts through the room, I find myself thinking about dreams—how they come to us in the night, unbidden and mysterious, and how they visit us again during the day as gentle daydreams. They don’t lecture or demand; they simply lean close and nudge us forward. Dreams give shape to the things we hope for, whispering possibilities we may not yet see clearly. Some inspire us to take a small step, others remind us quietly of what matters most. But always, they invite us to imagine a little more boldly, to believe a little more deeply, and to follow where the heart naturally leans.
This morning, Langston Hughes’ words rise softly in my mind:
“Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.”
And so I take another sip of coffee and gaze out the window. The gray world is shifting—softly, quietly—into a December winter wonderland as daylight strengthens. Snow glimmers. Pines offer their evergreen steadiness. The day stretches before me like fresh canvas.
I begin this new morning with coffee in my stomach, a December dream in my heart, and a December sparkle in my soul.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Dreams are the lanterns we carry into the darkness--
guiding us not to where we have been,
but to all we may yet become.” ~Wylddane
~Wylddane
Snow drifted down in slow, deliberate spirals, catching the golden glow of lamplight. People hurried along the sidewalks bundled in heavy coats, yet every face he passed seemed softened by wonder, as though each person carried a secret of joy just waiting to be spoken aloud. A woman dressed in silver paused beside him and whispered, “Follow the falling star, Liam,” before melting into the crowd as if she were made of mist.
And overhead—impossibly—there was a falling star. Not plummeting, not burning out, but drifting like a lantern released by a gentle hand. He stepped after it without thinking, and with each step the bustling city softened, then blurred, then dissolved into a moonlit forest.
Pine branches bowed under fresh snow. The air smelled of cedar and quiet. Liam heard the faint crunch of footsteps and turned—only to find a deer standing beside him, calm and unafraid, its breath a soft ghost in the air. Behind it, a fox watched him with bright, knowing eyes. When Liam took a step forward, both animals turned and trotted deeper into the woods, pausing often to be sure he followed.
But when he crossed between two leaning birches, the world shifted again.
The forest brightened. Lights—small spheres of winter-blue fire—bobbed between the trees. Mystical beings, neither fully human nor fully spirit, emerged from the shadows: tall, graceful figures draped in shimmering cloaks of snowflakes; tiny winged creatures whose laughter sounded like icicles chiming in the wind. They circled him, not menacing but curious, their forms flickering like candle flame.
“You walk between worlds, Liam,” one of them said, voice as soft as first snow. “In dreams we remember what waking often forgets.”
Another pointed toward the falling star, now hovering above a small frozen pond. Liam stepped onto the ice, which glowed from within as though lit by ancient moonlight. Beneath its surface he saw scenes from his own life—moments of love, sorrow, courage, hope—drifting by like reflections in a dream.
At first he felt startled, then exposed, then… comforted. It was all there: the roads he had walked, the lives he had touched, the dreams he had dared, abandoned, reclaimed.
The mystical beings gathered around him in a gentle circle.
“Dreams,” they whispered, “are not fantasies. They are maps.”
The deer stepped forward. The fox sat at his side. Above them the falling star pulsed warmly, almost like a heartbeat.
And then—just as Liam reached out toward that starlit glow—the forest, the city, the beings, all of it folded into brilliant white light.
He awoke in his armchair, breath catching softly in his throat.
The fire still glowed gold. Snow still whispered against the windows. He rested his hand over his heart and smiled.
“Once upon a time,” he murmured, “I had a December dream.”
And for the rest of his life, he would remember.
* * * * * * * * * *
It is a cold gray morning in the northwoods. The clouds hang low and heavy, promising a wintry day ahead. Yet the wee cottage is warm and comfortable, cradle-soft with its familiar December quiet. Diane Upshaw’s beautiful voice rises from the speakers, giving soul to her Spanish carol—lifting me peacefully and happily from the last wisps of my own December dream.
I cradle my coffee, savor that first deep, comforting sip. All is well.
As her voice drifts through the room, I find myself thinking about dreams—how they come to us in the night, unbidden and mysterious, and how they visit us again during the day as gentle daydreams. They don’t lecture or demand; they simply lean close and nudge us forward. Dreams give shape to the things we hope for, whispering possibilities we may not yet see clearly. Some inspire us to take a small step, others remind us quietly of what matters most. But always, they invite us to imagine a little more boldly, to believe a little more deeply, and to follow where the heart naturally leans.
This morning, Langston Hughes’ words rise softly in my mind:
“Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.”
And so I take another sip of coffee and gaze out the window. The gray world is shifting—softly, quietly—into a December winter wonderland as daylight strengthens. Snow glimmers. Pines offer their evergreen steadiness. The day stretches before me like fresh canvas.
I begin this new morning with coffee in my stomach, a December dream in my heart, and a December sparkle in my soul.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Dreams are the lanterns we carry into the darkness--
guiding us not to where we have been,
but to all we may yet become.” ~Wylddane
~Wylddane
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