"The Bench at Coon Lake" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The bench had been placed there years ago, facing the small lake as if it had chosen the view for itself. Two planks for sitting, one for leaning back, all weathered smooth by seasons of sun, rain, and the long, deliberate patience of winter.
During the snowstorm, it sat empty.
Snow fell steadily, soft as breath, erasing footprints before they could decide where they were going. The lake beyond the bench blurred into a pale sheet of white and gray, its edges dissolving into sky. Pines bowed under the weight of fresh snow, their branches whispering as flakes slipped free and fell.
Once, the bench had known company.
Morning walkers with hands tucked deep into coat pockets. A couple who sat close but spoke little, letting the lake say what neither of them could. An old man who came at dusk, resting his hands on his cane, watching the water as if it might answer a question he no longer remembered asking.
But today, there was only snow.
The bench did not mourn the emptiness. It understood something people often forget: absence is not abandonment. It is simply a pause. A held breath.
Snow gathered along its slats, outlining its shape more clearly than summer ever had. In the hush of the storm, the bench became what it had always been—a place of waiting, not longing. A place prepared to hold whatever came next.
As the snowfall softened, light shifted almost imperceptibly. The lake remained silent, but the silence was no longer lonely. It was complete. The bench waited—not for someone in particular, but for the simple certainty that someone, someday, would sit again, breathe deeply, and feel less alone than they had moments before.
And in that knowing, the bench was content.
* * * * * * * * * *
It snowed all day yesterday. Not fiercely, not dramatically—just steadily, faithfully, as if winter had decided to stay awhile and read alongside me. I napped. I read. The blizzard that was forecast never quite arrived, but the snow did, and somehow that was enough.
This morning it is still dark. The wee cottage glows softly—the Christmas tree lights, a single lamp in the bay window. I refill my coffee mug and take a sip. Saint-Saëns’ Organ Symphony fills the room, the music rising and settling like breath itself.
Outside, the streetlamp reveals a world etched in white—parking-lot-white, hush-white, like a painting still deciding what it wants to become.
I think of that bench by the lake. Empty, yes—but not lonely. Waiting, but not anxious.
A monk was once asked, “What is worry?”
He smiled and said, “It is the thief that steals today’s peace while pretending to prepare you for tomorrow.”
Peace is not found by controlling tomorrow.
It is found by fully living today.
I take another sip of coffee and let the clutter in my mind loosen its grip. I let this moment be enough—the music, the snow, the quiet glow of morning. Like the bench, I don’t need to rush toward what comes next.
And so I begin this day as it is given to me.
At peace.
“Nothing is ever truly empty.
It is only waiting.”
~Wylddane
During the snowstorm, it sat empty.
Snow fell steadily, soft as breath, erasing footprints before they could decide where they were going. The lake beyond the bench blurred into a pale sheet of white and gray, its edges dissolving into sky. Pines bowed under the weight of fresh snow, their branches whispering as flakes slipped free and fell.
Once, the bench had known company.
Morning walkers with hands tucked deep into coat pockets. A couple who sat close but spoke little, letting the lake say what neither of them could. An old man who came at dusk, resting his hands on his cane, watching the water as if it might answer a question he no longer remembered asking.
But today, there was only snow.
The bench did not mourn the emptiness. It understood something people often forget: absence is not abandonment. It is simply a pause. A held breath.
Snow gathered along its slats, outlining its shape more clearly than summer ever had. In the hush of the storm, the bench became what it had always been—a place of waiting, not longing. A place prepared to hold whatever came next.
As the snowfall softened, light shifted almost imperceptibly. The lake remained silent, but the silence was no longer lonely. It was complete. The bench waited—not for someone in particular, but for the simple certainty that someone, someday, would sit again, breathe deeply, and feel less alone than they had moments before.
And in that knowing, the bench was content.
* * * * * * * * * *
It snowed all day yesterday. Not fiercely, not dramatically—just steadily, faithfully, as if winter had decided to stay awhile and read alongside me. I napped. I read. The blizzard that was forecast never quite arrived, but the snow did, and somehow that was enough.
This morning it is still dark. The wee cottage glows softly—the Christmas tree lights, a single lamp in the bay window. I refill my coffee mug and take a sip. Saint-Saëns’ Organ Symphony fills the room, the music rising and settling like breath itself.
Outside, the streetlamp reveals a world etched in white—parking-lot-white, hush-white, like a painting still deciding what it wants to become.
I think of that bench by the lake. Empty, yes—but not lonely. Waiting, but not anxious.
A monk was once asked, “What is worry?”
He smiled and said, “It is the thief that steals today’s peace while pretending to prepare you for tomorrow.”
Peace is not found by controlling tomorrow.
It is found by fully living today.
I take another sip of coffee and let the clutter in my mind loosen its grip. I let this moment be enough—the music, the snow, the quiet glow of morning. Like the bench, I don’t need to rush toward what comes next.
And so I begin this day as it is given to me.
At peace.
“Nothing is ever truly empty.
It is only waiting.”
~Wylddane
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