"A New Day at Coon Lake" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The sky glows with the first soft gold of morning, and across the still lake, a gentle mist rises like the breath of the earth—peaceful, steady, alive. I look at the painting I created, and it captures it all: that hush before the world fully wakes, when the light is new, the colors are tender, and time itself seems to pause.
It is the middle of Memorial Day weekend here in the United States. Officially, it is a time for remembrance—a time to pause and reflect on the cost of freedom and the quiet, enduring legacy of those who served. The impact of war is never just on battlefields; it ripples across generations, carried in hearts, in folded flags, in stories whispered and silences kept.
But this weekend is also the unofficial start of summer. In the Northwoods, the change is palpable. The air hums with new energy. Summer folks arrive with smiles, boats grace the lakes again, children chase each other down wooded paths, and the scent of first campfires floats into the evening air. The days stretch out with the promise of warmth and barefoot wandering. It is a time of suntans and, yes, the occasional sunburn.
Life expands.
Yet beneath all the motion and merriment, this bright morning offers something more. It offers stillness. A place to breathe, remember, and simply be.
I sit with my coffee and let my heart move through memories—some joyful, others laced with longing. I think of cousins who served in World War II, young and brave, facing down a darkness that threatened the very soul of humanity. They fought so that fascism would not take root on our soil. I honor them in the silence of this moment.
I also think of all those who are no longer here—family who once filled my days with laughter, conversation, comfort. Of my immediate family, I am the only one left. I do not dwell in sorrow, but I carry the soft ache of remembrance, stitched into the fabric of who I am. They were, and always will be, a part of my story.
And perhaps that is why mornings like this matter so much. The light has a way of blessing everything it touches. In it, I feel both the presence of those I’ve loved and the deep stillness of the Divine.
There’s a quote I came across that echoes in my soul this morning:
“The Divine does not dwell only in the heavens, but in the tender light of a new day and the quiet presence of remembrance.” ~Anon
Yes. In the quiet, in the memory, in the morning light—we are never truly alone. The day begins anew, and with it, so do we.
~Wylddane
It is the middle of Memorial Day weekend here in the United States. Officially, it is a time for remembrance—a time to pause and reflect on the cost of freedom and the quiet, enduring legacy of those who served. The impact of war is never just on battlefields; it ripples across generations, carried in hearts, in folded flags, in stories whispered and silences kept.
But this weekend is also the unofficial start of summer. In the Northwoods, the change is palpable. The air hums with new energy. Summer folks arrive with smiles, boats grace the lakes again, children chase each other down wooded paths, and the scent of first campfires floats into the evening air. The days stretch out with the promise of warmth and barefoot wandering. It is a time of suntans and, yes, the occasional sunburn.
Life expands.
Yet beneath all the motion and merriment, this bright morning offers something more. It offers stillness. A place to breathe, remember, and simply be.
I sit with my coffee and let my heart move through memories—some joyful, others laced with longing. I think of cousins who served in World War II, young and brave, facing down a darkness that threatened the very soul of humanity. They fought so that fascism would not take root on our soil. I honor them in the silence of this moment.
I also think of all those who are no longer here—family who once filled my days with laughter, conversation, comfort. Of my immediate family, I am the only one left. I do not dwell in sorrow, but I carry the soft ache of remembrance, stitched into the fabric of who I am. They were, and always will be, a part of my story.
And perhaps that is why mornings like this matter so much. The light has a way of blessing everything it touches. In it, I feel both the presence of those I’ve loved and the deep stillness of the Divine.
There’s a quote I came across that echoes in my soul this morning:
“The Divine does not dwell only in the heavens, but in the tender light of a new day and the quiet presence of remembrance.” ~Anon
Yes. In the quiet, in the memory, in the morning light—we are never truly alone. The day begins anew, and with it, so do we.
~Wylddane
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