"This Wonderful Now" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The river near Lone Pine did not rush in January.
It held itself still, as if listening.
Ethan stood at the edge of the snow-packed path, the bridge just ahead...old timbers weathered smooth by decades of thaw and freeze, its concrete footings dark against the white. The river beneath lay frozen, though here and there the ice had cracked and refrozen, creating long pale seams like veins beneath translucent skin.
Bear padded ahead, stopping at the edge of the bridge, nose lifted. His breath rose in soft clouds, each one vanishing almost as soon as it appeared. He did not bark or strain at the leash. He simply waited, as though this place required acknowledgment before crossing.
The woods leaned in close. Bare branches etched themselves against a sky still holding the last of night, the faintest suggestion of dawn beginning to pale the east. Somewhere far upstream, water murmured under ice...quiet, persistent, alive.
Ethan rested his mittened hands on the bridge railing. The cold seeped through the wool, sharp and bracing. He welcomed it. January had a way of stripping things down to what mattered: breath, footing, warmth, presence.
He thought of how often he had crossed bridges like this...moving from one place to another, one season to the next, one version of himself to the next...without really being there. Thinking ahead. Remembering behind. Rarely standing still in the middle.
Bear stepped onto the bridge at last, then stopped again, glancing back as if to say, Come on. Or don’t. But notice.
Ethan smiled.
They stood together for a long moment, man and dog, snow creaking softly beneath their boots and paws. Nothing demanded their attention. Nothing pulled at them from elsewhere. The river did not ask where they had been or where they were going.
It simply existed.
When they finally crossed, it felt less like leaving something behind and more like carrying it with them...the quiet, the stillness, the knowledge that this moment had been complete in itself.
On the far side, Bear shook the snow from his coat and trotted ahead, already ready for what came next.
Ethan followed, lighter somehow, as if the bridge had taught him something without using words.
* * * * * * * * * *
“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.” ~Henry David Thoreau
Outside, it is still dark. The cold presses its face against the windowpanes. The trees stand etched in charcoal lines against a sky just beginning to loosen its grip on night. Somewhere beyond them, dawn is practicing.
Inside the wee cottage, all is warmth. Coffee steams in my mug...rich, bitter, perfect. A lamp pools golden light across my desk. The rest of the room recedes into a friendly shadow, as if it knows this moment belongs to quiet attention.
This is the cocoon.
Thoreau reminds us...gently, firmly...that there is no other life waiting somewhere else. No better hour arriving later. No truer ground than the one beneath our feet right now. And yet how often we stand on our own small islands of soon and someday, gazing toward imagined shores.
But this...this...is the wave.
This breath.
This warmth.
This silence broken only by the soft ticking of the clock and the first sip of coffee.
The day will unfold soon enough. Responsibilities will stir. News will knock. The world will ask its many questions. But for now, there is nothing missing.
This precious moment.
This cocoon of completeness.
This wonderful now.
And from here...from presence rather than hurry...we begin the day not as fugitives from time, but as participants in it.
Fully here.
Fully alive.
~Wylddane
It held itself still, as if listening.
Ethan stood at the edge of the snow-packed path, the bridge just ahead...old timbers weathered smooth by decades of thaw and freeze, its concrete footings dark against the white. The river beneath lay frozen, though here and there the ice had cracked and refrozen, creating long pale seams like veins beneath translucent skin.
Bear padded ahead, stopping at the edge of the bridge, nose lifted. His breath rose in soft clouds, each one vanishing almost as soon as it appeared. He did not bark or strain at the leash. He simply waited, as though this place required acknowledgment before crossing.
The woods leaned in close. Bare branches etched themselves against a sky still holding the last of night, the faintest suggestion of dawn beginning to pale the east. Somewhere far upstream, water murmured under ice...quiet, persistent, alive.
Ethan rested his mittened hands on the bridge railing. The cold seeped through the wool, sharp and bracing. He welcomed it. January had a way of stripping things down to what mattered: breath, footing, warmth, presence.
He thought of how often he had crossed bridges like this...moving from one place to another, one season to the next, one version of himself to the next...without really being there. Thinking ahead. Remembering behind. Rarely standing still in the middle.
Bear stepped onto the bridge at last, then stopped again, glancing back as if to say, Come on. Or don’t. But notice.
Ethan smiled.
They stood together for a long moment, man and dog, snow creaking softly beneath their boots and paws. Nothing demanded their attention. Nothing pulled at them from elsewhere. The river did not ask where they had been or where they were going.
It simply existed.
When they finally crossed, it felt less like leaving something behind and more like carrying it with them...the quiet, the stillness, the knowledge that this moment had been complete in itself.
On the far side, Bear shook the snow from his coat and trotted ahead, already ready for what came next.
Ethan followed, lighter somehow, as if the bridge had taught him something without using words.
* * * * * * * * * *
“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.” ~Henry David Thoreau
Outside, it is still dark. The cold presses its face against the windowpanes. The trees stand etched in charcoal lines against a sky just beginning to loosen its grip on night. Somewhere beyond them, dawn is practicing.
Inside the wee cottage, all is warmth. Coffee steams in my mug...rich, bitter, perfect. A lamp pools golden light across my desk. The rest of the room recedes into a friendly shadow, as if it knows this moment belongs to quiet attention.
This is the cocoon.
Thoreau reminds us...gently, firmly...that there is no other life waiting somewhere else. No better hour arriving later. No truer ground than the one beneath our feet right now. And yet how often we stand on our own small islands of soon and someday, gazing toward imagined shores.
But this...this...is the wave.
This breath.
This warmth.
This silence broken only by the soft ticking of the clock and the first sip of coffee.
The day will unfold soon enough. Responsibilities will stir. News will knock. The world will ask its many questions. But for now, there is nothing missing.
This precious moment.
This cocoon of completeness.
This wonderful now.
And from here...from presence rather than hurry...we begin the day not as fugitives from time, but as participants in it.
Fully here.
Fully alive.
~Wylddane
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