"The Arrowhead" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“Those who listen to the land will hear not only its history--
but its hope.” ~Unknown
March in the Northwoods is neither winter nor spring—it is a negotiation.
The ice on Stillwater Gleam had begun to darken, its surface softening under a week of mild afternoons. Along the shoreline, patches of brown grass and last autumn’s reeds were emerging from beneath snow like forgotten thoughts.
Liam walked slowly, hands tucked into the pockets of his wool coat. Beside him, Mabel trotted with focused purpose, her black-and-white coat bright against the lingering drifts. The air was soft for March. Not warm exactly—but forgiving.
The lake made quiet sounds beneath the thinning ice. Not cracks. Not groans. Just whispers.
Mabel suddenly stopped.
Her ears pricked forward. She lowered her nose to the ground near a strip of exposed sand where meltwater had run in a thin ribbon.
“What is it, girl?”
She pawed gently.
Liam knelt.
Half-buried in damp earth lay a small, dark stone—triangular, perfectly shaped, its edges worn smooth by time.
He brushed it clean.
An arrowhead.
Not chipped rock. Not debris. Deliberate. Crafted.
He turned it in his hand—and when his fingers closed around it, the world shifted.
The gray lake dissolved.
The bare shoreline filled with green. Birch and pine stood thick and tall. Smoke rose in thin, graceful lines from lodges along the water’s edge. Children ran laughing between trees. Women knelt near the shore washing fish in woven baskets. Men stood at the waterline with canoes carved from hollowed trunks.
The air was alive with drumbeats and voices.
He saw hunters moving through the forest—silent, purposeful. He saw elders seated in a circle, speaking in measured tones. He saw warriors—but not at war. Guardians. Protectors.
He saw peace.
And then—he saw the one who had shaped the arrowhead. A young man sitting beside the lake, carefully knapping stone, his brow furrowed in concentration. He paused and looked up—directly at Liam.
Their eyes met.
Not with surprise.
With recognition.
A voice—not heard but understood—moved through Liam like wind through pine needles:
Remember.
The arrowhead slipped from his fingers.
The vision vanished.
Gray sky. Bare trees. Thinning ice.
Mabel nudged his arm gently.
Liam’s heart pounded—not from fear, but from something larger.
A belonging.
He found Ethan that afternoon at the wee cedar-planked cottage, Bear sprawled on the rug like a snow-white guardian. Isabel blinked regally from her perch on the windowsill. Ragnhilde watched from the beam above the hearth, glossy black feathers absorbing firelight.
Liam placed the arrowhead on the table between them.
And told the story.
Ethan listened without interruption.
When Liam finished, silence held the room—not disbelief, but reverence.
Ragnhilde tilted her head.
Bear lifted his gaze.
Isabel flicked her tail, as if acknowledging something ancient.
Ethan finally spoke.
“Maybe it wasn’t a vision of the past,” he said softly. “Maybe it was a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That this land remembers peace. And that it recognizes those who will protect it.”
Liam looked at the arrowhead.
He felt again the steady gaze of the young maker by the lake.
Mabel rested her chin on his knee.
“What if,” Ethan continued, “you weren’t meant to keep it?”
Liam understood.
The next morning, beneath the same gray March sky, he returned to the shoreline.
He held the arrowhead one last time.
“Thank you,” he whispered—not sure to whom.
Then he placed it gently back into the earth where Mabel had found it.
Not buried.
Returned.
The lake whispered again.
And this time, he did not need a vision to understand.
He was already part of the story.
* * * * * * * * * *
This morning the sky is a soft and endless gray.
Not ominous. Not heavy.
Simply present.
Bare branches stretch across the horizon outside my window, etched like charcoal lines against the muted backdrop. The snowbanks are smaller now. The light lingers differently. The air carries a promise not yet spoken aloud.
Inside the wee cottage, lamplight pools warmly across the table. My mug of coffee steams gently, rising in pale curls like incense for the ordinary sacredness of this day.
The opening notes of
"Concierto de Aranjuez"
by Joaquín Rodrigo
drift through the room—those unmistakable guitar phrases, tender and searching.
They seem to ask a question.
And perhaps offer one.
Today’s words echo quietly within me:
“The soul always feels connected with the wonder of life, because the soul is the wonder of life, expressed.”
~Neale Donald Walsch
On a gray morning like this, it is easy to think wonder belongs to sunrises ablaze with color. To eagles overhead. To thunderous waterfalls.
But perhaps wonder is quieter.
Perhaps wonder is steam rising from a coffee mug.
Perhaps wonder is music in a small room.
Perhaps wonder is a man kneeling beside a thawing lake, touching a piece of stone shaped centuries ago, and remembering that peace once lived here—and can live here again.
The soul does not require spectacle.
It recognizes itself in small mercies.
In warmth.
In gentleness.
In the decision to walk softly upon the land.
The soul is not searching for wonder.
It is expressing it.
Even now.
I refill my mug.
Outside, the gray sky remains.
And somehow, it feels luminous.
~Wylddane
but its hope.” ~Unknown
March in the Northwoods is neither winter nor spring—it is a negotiation.
The ice on Stillwater Gleam had begun to darken, its surface softening under a week of mild afternoons. Along the shoreline, patches of brown grass and last autumn’s reeds were emerging from beneath snow like forgotten thoughts.
Liam walked slowly, hands tucked into the pockets of his wool coat. Beside him, Mabel trotted with focused purpose, her black-and-white coat bright against the lingering drifts. The air was soft for March. Not warm exactly—but forgiving.
The lake made quiet sounds beneath the thinning ice. Not cracks. Not groans. Just whispers.
Mabel suddenly stopped.
Her ears pricked forward. She lowered her nose to the ground near a strip of exposed sand where meltwater had run in a thin ribbon.
“What is it, girl?”
She pawed gently.
Liam knelt.
Half-buried in damp earth lay a small, dark stone—triangular, perfectly shaped, its edges worn smooth by time.
He brushed it clean.
An arrowhead.
Not chipped rock. Not debris. Deliberate. Crafted.
He turned it in his hand—and when his fingers closed around it, the world shifted.
The gray lake dissolved.
The bare shoreline filled with green. Birch and pine stood thick and tall. Smoke rose in thin, graceful lines from lodges along the water’s edge. Children ran laughing between trees. Women knelt near the shore washing fish in woven baskets. Men stood at the waterline with canoes carved from hollowed trunks.
The air was alive with drumbeats and voices.
He saw hunters moving through the forest—silent, purposeful. He saw elders seated in a circle, speaking in measured tones. He saw warriors—but not at war. Guardians. Protectors.
He saw peace.
And then—he saw the one who had shaped the arrowhead. A young man sitting beside the lake, carefully knapping stone, his brow furrowed in concentration. He paused and looked up—directly at Liam.
Their eyes met.
Not with surprise.
With recognition.
A voice—not heard but understood—moved through Liam like wind through pine needles:
Remember.
The arrowhead slipped from his fingers.
The vision vanished.
Gray sky. Bare trees. Thinning ice.
Mabel nudged his arm gently.
Liam’s heart pounded—not from fear, but from something larger.
A belonging.
He found Ethan that afternoon at the wee cedar-planked cottage, Bear sprawled on the rug like a snow-white guardian. Isabel blinked regally from her perch on the windowsill. Ragnhilde watched from the beam above the hearth, glossy black feathers absorbing firelight.
Liam placed the arrowhead on the table between them.
And told the story.
Ethan listened without interruption.
When Liam finished, silence held the room—not disbelief, but reverence.
Ragnhilde tilted her head.
Bear lifted his gaze.
Isabel flicked her tail, as if acknowledging something ancient.
Ethan finally spoke.
“Maybe it wasn’t a vision of the past,” he said softly. “Maybe it was a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That this land remembers peace. And that it recognizes those who will protect it.”
Liam looked at the arrowhead.
He felt again the steady gaze of the young maker by the lake.
Mabel rested her chin on his knee.
“What if,” Ethan continued, “you weren’t meant to keep it?”
Liam understood.
The next morning, beneath the same gray March sky, he returned to the shoreline.
He held the arrowhead one last time.
“Thank you,” he whispered—not sure to whom.
Then he placed it gently back into the earth where Mabel had found it.
Not buried.
Returned.
The lake whispered again.
And this time, he did not need a vision to understand.
He was already part of the story.
* * * * * * * * * *
This morning the sky is a soft and endless gray.
Not ominous. Not heavy.
Simply present.
Bare branches stretch across the horizon outside my window, etched like charcoal lines against the muted backdrop. The snowbanks are smaller now. The light lingers differently. The air carries a promise not yet spoken aloud.
Inside the wee cottage, lamplight pools warmly across the table. My mug of coffee steams gently, rising in pale curls like incense for the ordinary sacredness of this day.
The opening notes of
"Concierto de Aranjuez"
by Joaquín Rodrigo
drift through the room—those unmistakable guitar phrases, tender and searching.
They seem to ask a question.
And perhaps offer one.
Today’s words echo quietly within me:
“The soul always feels connected with the wonder of life, because the soul is the wonder of life, expressed.”
~Neale Donald Walsch
On a gray morning like this, it is easy to think wonder belongs to sunrises ablaze with color. To eagles overhead. To thunderous waterfalls.
But perhaps wonder is quieter.
Perhaps wonder is steam rising from a coffee mug.
Perhaps wonder is music in a small room.
Perhaps wonder is a man kneeling beside a thawing lake, touching a piece of stone shaped centuries ago, and remembering that peace once lived here—and can live here again.
The soul does not require spectacle.
It recognizes itself in small mercies.
In warmth.
In gentleness.
In the decision to walk softly upon the land.
The soul is not searching for wonder.
It is expressing it.
Even now.
I refill my mug.
Outside, the gray sky remains.
And somehow, it feels luminous.
~Wylddane
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