"Snow Geese Memories" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
On Christmas Eve, seven years ago—or perhaps seven lifetimes, time is slippery that way—the Trade River had not yet decided to freeze.
Winter held the banks in its firm white grip, snow piled softly along the edges, bare trees standing like quiet witnesses. But the river itself still moved, dark and patient, carrying the memory of autumn beneath its skin.
A pair of snow geese drifted there, side by side.
They did not hurry. They did not call out. They simply floated, their white bodies mirrored in the slow water, as if the river itself wished to remember them. Anyone passing might have mistaken the scene for ordinary, but it was anything but. It was a moment complete unto itself.
Nearby, a man stood on the riverbank, hands tucked into his coat pockets, breath rising in pale clouds. He had come for a walk, or perhaps the walk had come for him. He watched the geese and felt something open inside him—an old door, long remembered.
As he stood there, he remembered a story his mother once told him on a Christmas Eve long ago. It was a story within a story, passed down like a quiet candle flame.
She had said that snow geese are not merely birds, but keepers of peace. That on certain nights—especially Christmas Eve—they appear where the world is still unfinished, where water remains open and hearts are still listening. They come not to announce anything, but to remind.
“Remind us of what?” he had asked her as a child.
“Of what we already know,” she said. “That peace exists. That joy is real. That belief is a choice we get to make again and again.”
Standing there now, the man felt the truth of it. The geese were not symbols; they were presence. They carried no message other than their being. The river did not rush them. The cold did not chase them away.
The moment asked nothing of him except attention.
For a while—minutes or hours, it did not matter—he watched. And in watching, he remembered.
He remembered other Christmas Eves: candlelight, quiet carols, snow tapping softly at windows, hands wrapped around warm mugs, hearts both full and broken and healing all at once. He remembered joy that had not vanished, only layered itself beneath time.
When the geese finally lifted, wings brushing the air with a sound like a soft prayer, he felt no loss. The river closed over their reflection, smooth and shining, holding the story safely.
He turned toward home, carrying nothing with him—and lacking nothing at all.
* * * * * * * * * *
It is very cold this morning.
Sub-zero cold. The kind that makes the air feel crystalline, almost sacred. The wind sharpens the edges of the world, and the windows are frosted thick with Jack Frost’s quiet artwork—ferns, feathers, delicate whorls that no human hand could improve upon.
Inside the wee cottage, I am warm. Coffee steams gently in my Christmas mug, and from the speakers comes a familiar carol--The Holly and the Ivy. Its ancient beauty weaves itself through the fabric of this morning, stitching together breath, memory, and stillness.
As I sit here, my mind and heart rest on these words from Dr. Wayne Dyer:
“Know in your heart that you don't need one more thing to make yourself complete, and then watch all those external things become less and less significant.”
This morning, I feel that truth settle in—not as an idea, but as a knowing.
My heart is full.
The cottage enfolds me.
This moment is enough.
The challenges of the past few days have found their proper scale. They are still there, perhaps—but they no longer hold power. After all, they are just stuff. Passing weather. Ripples on the surface.
What matters is this:
Being here.
Being alive.
Being awake to the quiet miracle of now.
Like the snow geese on the open river, I do not need to explain myself or hurry toward anything else. I simply float within the moment, trusting it to hold me.
So I begin this day with a heart full.
With a soul brimming with joy.
I begin this day with peace.
There is so much for which to be thankful.
And this morning--
I am thankful.
* * * * * * * * * *
“When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.” ~Lao Tzu
~Wylddane
Winter held the banks in its firm white grip, snow piled softly along the edges, bare trees standing like quiet witnesses. But the river itself still moved, dark and patient, carrying the memory of autumn beneath its skin.
A pair of snow geese drifted there, side by side.
They did not hurry. They did not call out. They simply floated, their white bodies mirrored in the slow water, as if the river itself wished to remember them. Anyone passing might have mistaken the scene for ordinary, but it was anything but. It was a moment complete unto itself.
Nearby, a man stood on the riverbank, hands tucked into his coat pockets, breath rising in pale clouds. He had come for a walk, or perhaps the walk had come for him. He watched the geese and felt something open inside him—an old door, long remembered.
As he stood there, he remembered a story his mother once told him on a Christmas Eve long ago. It was a story within a story, passed down like a quiet candle flame.
She had said that snow geese are not merely birds, but keepers of peace. That on certain nights—especially Christmas Eve—they appear where the world is still unfinished, where water remains open and hearts are still listening. They come not to announce anything, but to remind.
“Remind us of what?” he had asked her as a child.
“Of what we already know,” she said. “That peace exists. That joy is real. That belief is a choice we get to make again and again.”
Standing there now, the man felt the truth of it. The geese were not symbols; they were presence. They carried no message other than their being. The river did not rush them. The cold did not chase them away.
The moment asked nothing of him except attention.
For a while—minutes or hours, it did not matter—he watched. And in watching, he remembered.
He remembered other Christmas Eves: candlelight, quiet carols, snow tapping softly at windows, hands wrapped around warm mugs, hearts both full and broken and healing all at once. He remembered joy that had not vanished, only layered itself beneath time.
When the geese finally lifted, wings brushing the air with a sound like a soft prayer, he felt no loss. The river closed over their reflection, smooth and shining, holding the story safely.
He turned toward home, carrying nothing with him—and lacking nothing at all.
* * * * * * * * * *
It is very cold this morning.
Sub-zero cold. The kind that makes the air feel crystalline, almost sacred. The wind sharpens the edges of the world, and the windows are frosted thick with Jack Frost’s quiet artwork—ferns, feathers, delicate whorls that no human hand could improve upon.
Inside the wee cottage, I am warm. Coffee steams gently in my Christmas mug, and from the speakers comes a familiar carol--The Holly and the Ivy. Its ancient beauty weaves itself through the fabric of this morning, stitching together breath, memory, and stillness.
As I sit here, my mind and heart rest on these words from Dr. Wayne Dyer:
“Know in your heart that you don't need one more thing to make yourself complete, and then watch all those external things become less and less significant.”
This morning, I feel that truth settle in—not as an idea, but as a knowing.
My heart is full.
The cottage enfolds me.
This moment is enough.
The challenges of the past few days have found their proper scale. They are still there, perhaps—but they no longer hold power. After all, they are just stuff. Passing weather. Ripples on the surface.
What matters is this:
Being here.
Being alive.
Being awake to the quiet miracle of now.
Like the snow geese on the open river, I do not need to explain myself or hurry toward anything else. I simply float within the moment, trusting it to hold me.
So I begin this day with a heart full.
With a soul brimming with joy.
I begin this day with peace.
There is so much for which to be thankful.
And this morning--
I am thankful.
* * * * * * * * * *
“When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.” ~Lao Tzu
~Wylddane
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