"The Lantern in the Rain" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“Be like a flowing river—quietly moving, always changing, yet always itself.”
~Dr. Wayne Dyer
March in the Northwoods was a season that never quite made up its mind.
Rain tapped against the windows of Liam’s cottage in a soft, persistent rhythm. Outside, Stillwater Gleam lay beneath a low sky the color of old pewter. The snowbanks along the shoreline had begun to sag and shrink, their edges collapsing into slushy rivulets that ran toward the lake. Somewhere during the night the rain had mixed with snow, and now a thin crust of wet flakes clung stubbornly to the cedar boughs.
Inside the cottage, the fire in the stone fireplace had burned low but steady. Liam pulled on his wool jacket and reached for the leash.
Mabel was already waiting by the door.
The black-and-white border collie stood perfectly still except for her tail, which swept slowly back and forth like a pendulum measuring patience.
“Yes, yes,” Liam chuckled. “I know.”
The moment the door opened, the damp cold slipped inside like an uninvited guest. It was not the biting cold of January. This was something softer but somehow more penetrating—the kind that seeped through wool and denim alike.
Mabel trotted ahead down the narrow path toward the lake.
Rain misted through the trees, fine as breath. The forest smelled alive—wet pine needles, thawing earth, and the faint mineral scent of melting snow.
They followed the shoreline trail where patches of old ice clung stubbornly to the edges of Stillwater Gleam. The lake itself was in that restless moment between seasons—dark water moving beneath scattered islands of thinning ice.
Mabel suddenly stopped.
Her ears lifted.
“What is it, girl?”
She stared across the lake.
Liam followed her gaze.
At first he saw nothing but mist and the blurred outlines of distant trees. Then, through the drifting rain, a faint glow appeared.
A small golden light flickered deep within the forest on the far shoreline.
Liam frowned.
A lantern?
It swung slowly back and forth, appearing and disappearing behind the trees.
“No one should be out there this morning,” he muttered.
The glow vanished.
Then it appeared again.
Mabel whined softly.
“Well,” Liam sighed, tightening his jacket. “Let’s go see what that’s about.”
They left the shoreline trail and crossed the narrow footbridge that spanned the marshy inlet. Wet snowflakes began drifting down again, swirling through the branches. The forest floor had turned to slick patches of mud and slush, and every step produced a quiet sucking sound.
The lantern glow flickered again ahead of them.
Mabel moved quickly now, weaving through the birch and cedar with the quiet confidence of a dog who understood the woods far better than most humans.
As they approached the far shoreline, the light grew brighter.
And stranger.
It wasn’t moving anymore.
It simply swayed.
Liam pushed aside a low cedar branch.
There it was.
An old fishing lantern hung from a broken limb of a wind-twisted pine. The glass chimney was intact, and the small flame inside danced wildly as the branch creaked in the wind.
Liam blinked in surprise.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
The lantern must have been left on an ice shanty earlier in the winter. When the storm winds came, the branch had snapped and lifted the lantern into the air like some strange forest ornament.
Lightning flickered faintly behind the clouds.
For a moment the lantern flared brighter in the reflection.
Liam chuckled softly. “Mystery solved, girl.”
But Mabel had already moved on.
She trotted toward the shoreline, nose low, tail stiff with concentration.
“Mabel?”
A sharp bark answered him.
Liam hurried down the muddy slope.
Two large Canada geese struggled near the water’s edge, their wings tangled in a long strand of discarded fishing line. The birds thrashed helplessly, slipping on the icy mud.
“Easy… easy now,” Liam said quietly.
Mabel sat immediately, watching with intense focus but making no move toward the birds.
Liam knelt carefully in the wet snow. The geese hissed angrily, but exhaustion had begun to dull their fight. With slow hands and patient movements, he untangled the line loop by loop.
Finally the last strand came free.
For a moment the birds simply stood there, stunned.
Then with a rush of wings and a burst of indignant honking, they lifted into the grey morning sky.
They circled once over the lake.
Then vanished into the mist.
Liam wiped his wet hands on his jeans.
“Well,” he said softly.
Mabel wagged her tail.
Behind them, the lantern continued to sway gently in the wind.
The rain began to ease.
And somewhere above the clouds, though no one could see it yet, the first quiet light of morning was slowly beginning to break.
* * * * * * * * * *
The rain still taps quietly at the windows this morning.
It is not January cold outside. This is a different kind of cold altogether—the damp chill of March that settles into the bones and reminds us that winter has not yet quite finished its work.
My mug of coffee rests warmly between my hands.
The steam rises in slow spirals, carrying that deep, comforting aroma that makes mornings like this feel almost sacred.
Music flows softly through the room.
Karl Jenkins’ Stella Natalis: II. Lullay.
The melody drifts like mist itself—haunting, delicate, and somehow perfectly suited for a grey morning where the world feels suspended between seasons.
March is a curious teacher.
The weather shifts without warning. Rain becomes snow. Snow becomes rain. The sky darkens, brightens, darkens again. Nothing holds still long enough to fully grasp.
And perhaps that is the point.
This morning I find myself pondering a quote from Dr. Wayne Dyer:
“Simply have a mind that is open to everything and attached to nothing. Let it all come and go as it will. Enjoy it all, but never make your happiness or success dependent on an attachment to any thing, any place, and particularly any person.”
It is a profound thought.
And if I am honest, not one I fully understand.
How could we not become attached to the people we love, the places that hold our memories, the moments that shape who we are?
Yet perhaps the wisdom is not about rejecting those things.
Perhaps it is about something quieter.
Perhaps it means allowing life to flow the way this morning flows—rain tapping gently at the windows, music rising and fading, coffee growing slowly cooler in the mug.
We experience it.
We appreciate it.
But we do not try to hold it still.
March understands this perfectly.
Winter is leaving.
Spring is arriving.
Neither one clings.
Both simply pass through.
And so this day begins.
A damp morning.
Warm coffee.
Soft music.
A thought worth carrying quietly through the hours ahead.
~Wylddane
~Dr. Wayne Dyer
March in the Northwoods was a season that never quite made up its mind.
Rain tapped against the windows of Liam’s cottage in a soft, persistent rhythm. Outside, Stillwater Gleam lay beneath a low sky the color of old pewter. The snowbanks along the shoreline had begun to sag and shrink, their edges collapsing into slushy rivulets that ran toward the lake. Somewhere during the night the rain had mixed with snow, and now a thin crust of wet flakes clung stubbornly to the cedar boughs.
Inside the cottage, the fire in the stone fireplace had burned low but steady. Liam pulled on his wool jacket and reached for the leash.
Mabel was already waiting by the door.
The black-and-white border collie stood perfectly still except for her tail, which swept slowly back and forth like a pendulum measuring patience.
“Yes, yes,” Liam chuckled. “I know.”
The moment the door opened, the damp cold slipped inside like an uninvited guest. It was not the biting cold of January. This was something softer but somehow more penetrating—the kind that seeped through wool and denim alike.
Mabel trotted ahead down the narrow path toward the lake.
Rain misted through the trees, fine as breath. The forest smelled alive—wet pine needles, thawing earth, and the faint mineral scent of melting snow.
They followed the shoreline trail where patches of old ice clung stubbornly to the edges of Stillwater Gleam. The lake itself was in that restless moment between seasons—dark water moving beneath scattered islands of thinning ice.
Mabel suddenly stopped.
Her ears lifted.
“What is it, girl?”
She stared across the lake.
Liam followed her gaze.
At first he saw nothing but mist and the blurred outlines of distant trees. Then, through the drifting rain, a faint glow appeared.
A small golden light flickered deep within the forest on the far shoreline.
Liam frowned.
A lantern?
It swung slowly back and forth, appearing and disappearing behind the trees.
“No one should be out there this morning,” he muttered.
The glow vanished.
Then it appeared again.
Mabel whined softly.
“Well,” Liam sighed, tightening his jacket. “Let’s go see what that’s about.”
They left the shoreline trail and crossed the narrow footbridge that spanned the marshy inlet. Wet snowflakes began drifting down again, swirling through the branches. The forest floor had turned to slick patches of mud and slush, and every step produced a quiet sucking sound.
The lantern glow flickered again ahead of them.
Mabel moved quickly now, weaving through the birch and cedar with the quiet confidence of a dog who understood the woods far better than most humans.
As they approached the far shoreline, the light grew brighter.
And stranger.
It wasn’t moving anymore.
It simply swayed.
Liam pushed aside a low cedar branch.
There it was.
An old fishing lantern hung from a broken limb of a wind-twisted pine. The glass chimney was intact, and the small flame inside danced wildly as the branch creaked in the wind.
Liam blinked in surprise.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
The lantern must have been left on an ice shanty earlier in the winter. When the storm winds came, the branch had snapped and lifted the lantern into the air like some strange forest ornament.
Lightning flickered faintly behind the clouds.
For a moment the lantern flared brighter in the reflection.
Liam chuckled softly. “Mystery solved, girl.”
But Mabel had already moved on.
She trotted toward the shoreline, nose low, tail stiff with concentration.
“Mabel?”
A sharp bark answered him.
Liam hurried down the muddy slope.
Two large Canada geese struggled near the water’s edge, their wings tangled in a long strand of discarded fishing line. The birds thrashed helplessly, slipping on the icy mud.
“Easy… easy now,” Liam said quietly.
Mabel sat immediately, watching with intense focus but making no move toward the birds.
Liam knelt carefully in the wet snow. The geese hissed angrily, but exhaustion had begun to dull their fight. With slow hands and patient movements, he untangled the line loop by loop.
Finally the last strand came free.
For a moment the birds simply stood there, stunned.
Then with a rush of wings and a burst of indignant honking, they lifted into the grey morning sky.
They circled once over the lake.
Then vanished into the mist.
Liam wiped his wet hands on his jeans.
“Well,” he said softly.
Mabel wagged her tail.
Behind them, the lantern continued to sway gently in the wind.
The rain began to ease.
And somewhere above the clouds, though no one could see it yet, the first quiet light of morning was slowly beginning to break.
* * * * * * * * * *
The rain still taps quietly at the windows this morning.
It is not January cold outside. This is a different kind of cold altogether—the damp chill of March that settles into the bones and reminds us that winter has not yet quite finished its work.
My mug of coffee rests warmly between my hands.
The steam rises in slow spirals, carrying that deep, comforting aroma that makes mornings like this feel almost sacred.
Music flows softly through the room.
Karl Jenkins’ Stella Natalis: II. Lullay.
The melody drifts like mist itself—haunting, delicate, and somehow perfectly suited for a grey morning where the world feels suspended between seasons.
March is a curious teacher.
The weather shifts without warning. Rain becomes snow. Snow becomes rain. The sky darkens, brightens, darkens again. Nothing holds still long enough to fully grasp.
And perhaps that is the point.
This morning I find myself pondering a quote from Dr. Wayne Dyer:
“Simply have a mind that is open to everything and attached to nothing. Let it all come and go as it will. Enjoy it all, but never make your happiness or success dependent on an attachment to any thing, any place, and particularly any person.”
It is a profound thought.
And if I am honest, not one I fully understand.
How could we not become attached to the people we love, the places that hold our memories, the moments that shape who we are?
Yet perhaps the wisdom is not about rejecting those things.
Perhaps it is about something quieter.
Perhaps it means allowing life to flow the way this morning flows—rain tapping gently at the windows, music rising and fading, coffee growing slowly cooler in the mug.
We experience it.
We appreciate it.
But we do not try to hold it still.
March understands this perfectly.
Winter is leaving.
Spring is arriving.
Neither one clings.
Both simply pass through.
And so this day begins.
A damp morning.
Warm coffee.
Soft music.
A thought worth carrying quietly through the hours ahead.
~Wylddane
RSS Feed