"Silas and the Mirror" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“Be careful what you press your heart against--
some doors open both ways.”
On December 23, 2025, Silas polished his grandmother’s antique mahogany mirror.
It had followed the family for decades—hung in hallways and bedrooms, always placed where winter light lingered longest. Its carved frame, darkened by time, was worn smooth where hands had rested without thinking. His grandmother believed the mirror possessed a particular kind of honesty.
“It shows what you’re reaching for,” she once said,
“and what you’ve already been given.”
Silas hadn’t understood that then. Tonight, alone in his apartment, he polished slowly, almost reverently. December pressed its quiet weight against the windows. The rooms were tidy, familiar, carefully arranged. A good life, by most measures—yet one he often experienced as incomplete, as though something essential were always just ahead of him, waiting.
The cloth moved across the glass.
The reflection did not.
Silas stopped.
The man in the mirror was himself—but framed by warmth instead of shadow. Behind him glowed a room alive with lamplight and pine scent. A Christmas tree stood nearby, decorated with handmade ornaments. A woman stepped into view, resting her hand easily at his shoulder. A toddler followed, laughing, dragging a wooden toy across the floor.
“Come on,” the woman said softly.
“Daddy,” the child laughed.
Silas felt the familiar ache of elsewhere—the sense that real life was happening just beyond the careful edges of his own. Without thinking, he raised his hand. The other Silas mirrored the gesture and pressed his palm flat against the glass.
The mirror softened.
Rippled.
Silas stepped through.
Warmth wrapped around him. The house breathed. The woman embraced him as though his body already knew her shape. The child laughed again. For a suspended moment, Silas believed this was what he had been missing all along.
Then—almost reluctantly—he turned back.
The mirror now showed his apartment.
But not as he remembered it.
Light glowed from a familiar lamp. A chair sat pulled close to the table, as if someone had lingered there in conversation. Books he loved lined the shelves, their spines worn by rereading. A coat hung patiently by the door. A candle burned steadily—not dramatic, not symbolic—just present. The room looked warm.
Intentional. Complete.
It was not a lonely space.
It was a life that had been waiting for him to live inside it.
The man standing there—his other self—did not look trapped or triumphant. He looked settled. As if he had finally stopped reaching past his own days.
And Silas understood—not with regret, but with clarity:
He had been so busy reaching forward that he had failed to live where he already stood.
Love had been present all along—in friendships, in rituals, in the quiet faithfulness of his days—but he had treated it as temporary, something to be replaced by a fuller version later.
The mirror stilled.
The glass hardened.
Behind him, the warm room stirred with life—needs, noise, expectation.
Silas did not reach for the mirror again.
He had learned what it was meant to teach.
And carrying that knowing with him—not as loss, but as instruction--
he stepped forward, resolved at last
to finish the life he had already begun.
* * * * * * * * * *
Morning once again.
Cloudy. Mild for December in the northwoods. The sky still insists it is night, though I know better—the only light a single streetlamp holding its post. A small fire crackles in the hearth, steady and companionable.
My Christmas mug warms my hands. Coffee brings me back. Toast with Bonne Maman strawberry jam tastes like familiarity and grace. Classical music drifts through the wee cottage—Christmas notes from KQED, distant yet right at home.
Each morning, something meets me.
Today, it is recognition.
Dr. Wayne Dyer offers this:
“Peace isn’t something you ultimately receive when you slow down the pace of your life. Peace is what you’re capable of being and bringing to every encounter and event in the waking moments of your life.”
I think of how often fulfillment is postponed—treated as something that begins later, somewhere else. How easy it is to believe the meaningful life is the one we haven’t quite reached yet.
But perhaps the work is simpler—and braver—than that.
Perhaps it is to live more fully in the rooms we already inhabit. To notice the warmth that has been there all along. To stop reaching past what is already offering itself.
This feels like a good place to begin again.
More coffee.
And so the day starts--
not searching--
but standing present--
and letting that be enough.
~Wylddane
some doors open both ways.”
On December 23, 2025, Silas polished his grandmother’s antique mahogany mirror.
It had followed the family for decades—hung in hallways and bedrooms, always placed where winter light lingered longest. Its carved frame, darkened by time, was worn smooth where hands had rested without thinking. His grandmother believed the mirror possessed a particular kind of honesty.
“It shows what you’re reaching for,” she once said,
“and what you’ve already been given.”
Silas hadn’t understood that then. Tonight, alone in his apartment, he polished slowly, almost reverently. December pressed its quiet weight against the windows. The rooms were tidy, familiar, carefully arranged. A good life, by most measures—yet one he often experienced as incomplete, as though something essential were always just ahead of him, waiting.
The cloth moved across the glass.
The reflection did not.
Silas stopped.
The man in the mirror was himself—but framed by warmth instead of shadow. Behind him glowed a room alive with lamplight and pine scent. A Christmas tree stood nearby, decorated with handmade ornaments. A woman stepped into view, resting her hand easily at his shoulder. A toddler followed, laughing, dragging a wooden toy across the floor.
“Come on,” the woman said softly.
“Daddy,” the child laughed.
Silas felt the familiar ache of elsewhere—the sense that real life was happening just beyond the careful edges of his own. Without thinking, he raised his hand. The other Silas mirrored the gesture and pressed his palm flat against the glass.
The mirror softened.
Rippled.
Silas stepped through.
Warmth wrapped around him. The house breathed. The woman embraced him as though his body already knew her shape. The child laughed again. For a suspended moment, Silas believed this was what he had been missing all along.
Then—almost reluctantly—he turned back.
The mirror now showed his apartment.
But not as he remembered it.
Light glowed from a familiar lamp. A chair sat pulled close to the table, as if someone had lingered there in conversation. Books he loved lined the shelves, their spines worn by rereading. A coat hung patiently by the door. A candle burned steadily—not dramatic, not symbolic—just present. The room looked warm.
Intentional. Complete.
It was not a lonely space.
It was a life that had been waiting for him to live inside it.
The man standing there—his other self—did not look trapped or triumphant. He looked settled. As if he had finally stopped reaching past his own days.
And Silas understood—not with regret, but with clarity:
He had been so busy reaching forward that he had failed to live where he already stood.
Love had been present all along—in friendships, in rituals, in the quiet faithfulness of his days—but he had treated it as temporary, something to be replaced by a fuller version later.
The mirror stilled.
The glass hardened.
Behind him, the warm room stirred with life—needs, noise, expectation.
Silas did not reach for the mirror again.
He had learned what it was meant to teach.
And carrying that knowing with him—not as loss, but as instruction--
he stepped forward, resolved at last
to finish the life he had already begun.
* * * * * * * * * *
Morning once again.
Cloudy. Mild for December in the northwoods. The sky still insists it is night, though I know better—the only light a single streetlamp holding its post. A small fire crackles in the hearth, steady and companionable.
My Christmas mug warms my hands. Coffee brings me back. Toast with Bonne Maman strawberry jam tastes like familiarity and grace. Classical music drifts through the wee cottage—Christmas notes from KQED, distant yet right at home.
Each morning, something meets me.
Today, it is recognition.
Dr. Wayne Dyer offers this:
“Peace isn’t something you ultimately receive when you slow down the pace of your life. Peace is what you’re capable of being and bringing to every encounter and event in the waking moments of your life.”
I think of how often fulfillment is postponed—treated as something that begins later, somewhere else. How easy it is to believe the meaningful life is the one we haven’t quite reached yet.
But perhaps the work is simpler—and braver—than that.
Perhaps it is to live more fully in the rooms we already inhabit. To notice the warmth that has been there all along. To stop reaching past what is already offering itself.
This feels like a good place to begin again.
More coffee.
And so the day starts--
not searching--
but standing present--
and letting that be enough.
~Wylddane
RSS Feed