"The Thin Ice Between Moments" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“Walk as if you are kissing the Earth with your feet.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh
The cottage stood tucked among tall white pines just beyond the northern curve of Stillwater Gleam, its weathered cedar walls silvered by decades of wind and snow. Inside, plank floors creaked softly beneath wool-socked feet, and a stone fireplace held the memory of last night’s fire — a faint scent of oak and ash lingering in the morning air.
Liam stood at the wide window, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug, watching the lake breathe beneath a pale February sky. The ice was no longer the unwavering sheet it had been weeks ago. Faint blue shadows curved across its surface, and here and there darker patches hinted at hidden water moving beneath.
Behind him, Mabel paced in slow circles, her border collie mind busy with invisible patterns only she understood. Her ears flicked toward the lake again and again.
“I see it too,” Liam murmured.
He set the mug aside, pulled on his wool cap, and reached for his skis propped beside the door. Snowshoes would have been easier, perhaps wiser — but cross-country skiing felt like listening to the land rather than conquering it.
They stepped out into the quiet. The covered porch — a place of summer laughter, iced tea, and long evenings watching loons — now held only drifts of pale powder and the whisper of wind.
The lake lay still before them.
Liam kept to the shoreline, skis gliding through a ribbon of snow between birch trunks. Mabel trotted ahead, pausing often, eyes scanning the ice.
Then she froze.
A young buck stood near a narrow cove, legs stiff, uncertain. The deer had wandered too far onto the thinning surface, and beneath it a dark oval of open water moved like a slow heartbeat.
Liam stopped. He did not shout. He did not run.
He remembered something an old Ojibwe neighbor once told him: the land listens best when you move slowly.
“Mabel,” he said quietly. “Wide circle.”
She moved immediately, low to the ground, her path curving like a question mark around the deer. Not pushing. Not chasing. Just… guiding.
The buck turned, drawn by motion more than fear, and stepped toward the shallower edge of the cove where the ice held thicker.
Liam slid one ski forward, then another, careful, deliberate. A fallen hemlock branch lay half buried in snow; he nudged it forward, extending it like a boundary line rather than a rescue tool.
The deer hesitated, breath fogging the air. For a moment — just a moment — its dark eyes met Liam’s.
And in that stillness, the world seemed to widen.
No urgency. No drama. Just three beings sharing one fragile patch of winter.
With a sudden lunge, the buck scrambled onto firmer ice and bounded toward the trees, vanishing into the woods with a flicker of white tail.
Mabel returned to Liam, her gaze bright but calm, as if the work had never truly been about saving anything — only about restoring balance.
“Well done, Mabe,” he whispered.
They turned back toward the cottage as the sun lowered behind the pines. The snow glowed amber, and long shadows stretched across the lake like open doors.
Inside, Liam lit the fire. Flames climbed the stonework, filling the room with warmth that seeped into plank floors and old beams alike. Mabel curled near the hearth, eyes half closed.
Liam stepped onto the porch one last time before dark. Stillwater Gleam lay quiet, neither fully frozen nor fully open — a place between states, neither one thing nor another.
He felt strangely light.
Not because they had rescued the deer.
But because, for a few silent minutes, they had simply met life where it was.
* * * * * * * * * *
This morning dawns clear and cold — nine degrees, the kind of cold that feels honest rather than harsh. Outside my window the Northwoods wear that late-February palette we know so well: muted browns, lingering whites, soft greens peeking through where snow has thinned. Bare trees hold the sky like open hands.
Coffee warms my palms.
Caroline Shaw and Voces 8 fill the cottage with Nightfall… and the Swallow, music that feels less like sound and more like breath made visible. It doesn’t rush. It invites.
A quote attributed to Thich Nhat Hanh stopped me this morning — one of those lines you read once, then again more slowly, and then you simply sit with it:
“This body is not me… I am life without limits… birth and death are doors through which we pass… we meet at the source of every moment… we meet in every form of life.”
At first glance, the words feel enormous — almost too large to hold in a simple morning. Yet sitting here, watching the light grow by degrees, they feel quietly practical.
Perhaps what he meant is this:
Every moment is thinner ice.
Not fragile in a frightening way — but alive, shifting, never fixed. We step onto each day believing it will hold, yet beneath the surface something is always moving: time, change, breath, memory.
And still, we walk.
The deer on Liam’s lake — the music filling this room — the steam rising from a mug of coffee — each is a meeting place. Not an ending. Not a beginning. Just a doorway where life recognizes itself.
When we slow enough, we notice that we are never alone in these crossings. The wind, the trees, a loyal dog at our side, a piece of music drifting through morning air — all of it is the same life, appearing in different forms.
I sip my coffee.
The sky grows lighter. Shadows retreat. Another day opens — not as something to conquer, but as something to meet.
Perhaps that is enough.
And so this day starts.
~Wylddane
The cottage stood tucked among tall white pines just beyond the northern curve of Stillwater Gleam, its weathered cedar walls silvered by decades of wind and snow. Inside, plank floors creaked softly beneath wool-socked feet, and a stone fireplace held the memory of last night’s fire — a faint scent of oak and ash lingering in the morning air.
Liam stood at the wide window, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug, watching the lake breathe beneath a pale February sky. The ice was no longer the unwavering sheet it had been weeks ago. Faint blue shadows curved across its surface, and here and there darker patches hinted at hidden water moving beneath.
Behind him, Mabel paced in slow circles, her border collie mind busy with invisible patterns only she understood. Her ears flicked toward the lake again and again.
“I see it too,” Liam murmured.
He set the mug aside, pulled on his wool cap, and reached for his skis propped beside the door. Snowshoes would have been easier, perhaps wiser — but cross-country skiing felt like listening to the land rather than conquering it.
They stepped out into the quiet. The covered porch — a place of summer laughter, iced tea, and long evenings watching loons — now held only drifts of pale powder and the whisper of wind.
The lake lay still before them.
Liam kept to the shoreline, skis gliding through a ribbon of snow between birch trunks. Mabel trotted ahead, pausing often, eyes scanning the ice.
Then she froze.
A young buck stood near a narrow cove, legs stiff, uncertain. The deer had wandered too far onto the thinning surface, and beneath it a dark oval of open water moved like a slow heartbeat.
Liam stopped. He did not shout. He did not run.
He remembered something an old Ojibwe neighbor once told him: the land listens best when you move slowly.
“Mabel,” he said quietly. “Wide circle.”
She moved immediately, low to the ground, her path curving like a question mark around the deer. Not pushing. Not chasing. Just… guiding.
The buck turned, drawn by motion more than fear, and stepped toward the shallower edge of the cove where the ice held thicker.
Liam slid one ski forward, then another, careful, deliberate. A fallen hemlock branch lay half buried in snow; he nudged it forward, extending it like a boundary line rather than a rescue tool.
The deer hesitated, breath fogging the air. For a moment — just a moment — its dark eyes met Liam’s.
And in that stillness, the world seemed to widen.
No urgency. No drama. Just three beings sharing one fragile patch of winter.
With a sudden lunge, the buck scrambled onto firmer ice and bounded toward the trees, vanishing into the woods with a flicker of white tail.
Mabel returned to Liam, her gaze bright but calm, as if the work had never truly been about saving anything — only about restoring balance.
“Well done, Mabe,” he whispered.
They turned back toward the cottage as the sun lowered behind the pines. The snow glowed amber, and long shadows stretched across the lake like open doors.
Inside, Liam lit the fire. Flames climbed the stonework, filling the room with warmth that seeped into plank floors and old beams alike. Mabel curled near the hearth, eyes half closed.
Liam stepped onto the porch one last time before dark. Stillwater Gleam lay quiet, neither fully frozen nor fully open — a place between states, neither one thing nor another.
He felt strangely light.
Not because they had rescued the deer.
But because, for a few silent minutes, they had simply met life where it was.
* * * * * * * * * *
This morning dawns clear and cold — nine degrees, the kind of cold that feels honest rather than harsh. Outside my window the Northwoods wear that late-February palette we know so well: muted browns, lingering whites, soft greens peeking through where snow has thinned. Bare trees hold the sky like open hands.
Coffee warms my palms.
Caroline Shaw and Voces 8 fill the cottage with Nightfall… and the Swallow, music that feels less like sound and more like breath made visible. It doesn’t rush. It invites.
A quote attributed to Thich Nhat Hanh stopped me this morning — one of those lines you read once, then again more slowly, and then you simply sit with it:
“This body is not me… I am life without limits… birth and death are doors through which we pass… we meet at the source of every moment… we meet in every form of life.”
At first glance, the words feel enormous — almost too large to hold in a simple morning. Yet sitting here, watching the light grow by degrees, they feel quietly practical.
Perhaps what he meant is this:
Every moment is thinner ice.
Not fragile in a frightening way — but alive, shifting, never fixed. We step onto each day believing it will hold, yet beneath the surface something is always moving: time, change, breath, memory.
And still, we walk.
The deer on Liam’s lake — the music filling this room — the steam rising from a mug of coffee — each is a meeting place. Not an ending. Not a beginning. Just a doorway where life recognizes itself.
When we slow enough, we notice that we are never alone in these crossings. The wind, the trees, a loyal dog at our side, a piece of music drifting through morning air — all of it is the same life, appearing in different forms.
I sip my coffee.
The sky grows lighter. Shadows retreat. Another day opens — not as something to conquer, but as something to meet.
Perhaps that is enough.
And so this day starts.
~Wylddane
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