"The Mirror that Refused March" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The bell above the door of Bean & Birch gave its familiar, cheerful chime as Ethan stepped inside, Bear padding in behind him, Isabel tucked like a small queen within the warm fold of his jacket. Ragnhilde, as was her way, did not bother with doors—she watched from the snowy branch just outside the window.
Inside, the morning circle had already formed.
Maren stood behind the counter, orchestrating mugs and laughter. Lucy was arranging pastries with an artist’s precision. At the long table by the window sat Erica, Sam, Martha, Toby, and Tom—hands wrapped around coffee, conversation drifting easily between them like woodsmoke.
Liam and Mabel arrived moments later, bringing with them a gust of March air—damp, soft, and carrying the faintest promise of thaw.
“Morning,” Liam said, brushing snow from his coat. “Feels like the world’s thinking about changing its mind.”
“About time,” Martha replied. “I’m ready for something green.”
“That,” Toby said, leaning back in his chair, “is exactly why you need to see this.”
He gestured toward the far wall.
At first, no one noticed anything unusual. It was just a mirror—tall, framed in old wood, something that might have once belonged to a farmhouse or a forgotten hotel. It leaned slightly, as though it had grown tired of standing perfectly straight.
“When did that get here?” Erica asked.
“Yesterday,” Lucy said. “A man dropped it off. Said it didn’t belong to him anymore. Wouldn’t say much else.”
Sam squinted. “Well, it looks like a mirror.”
“It is,” Toby said, with a grin that suggested otherwise. “Until it isn’t.”
That was enough.
One by one, they rose and gathered before it.
At first, it behaved exactly as expected. It reflected the room: mugs, scarves, laughter, the soft amber glow of morning light. It reflected them as they were—hair slightly mussed, eyes not yet fully awake, cheeks warmed by coffee and company.
Then Bear gave a soft, questioning huff.
And the mirror…shifted.
The change was subtle at first. The window behind them—reflected in the glass—no longer showed the gray-brown March morning. Instead, it shimmered with something greener. Brighter.
“Do you see that?” Sam whispered.
The reflection deepened.
Where there had been bare trees, there were now leaves—new, impossibly tender green. The snow along the edge of Stillwater Gleam had vanished, replaced by open water catching sunlight in silver flashes. Ferns curled at the forest floor. Wildflowers, not yet born, nodded in a breeze that could not exist.
Martha stepped closer. “That’s…my garden,” she said softly. “But—better.”
Erica laughed, half in wonder. “Look at the dock—Tom, you fixed it.”
Tom shook his head slowly. “I haven’t even started.”
Liam crouched slightly, Mabel at his side. “There’s the trail,” he murmured. “But it’s dry. And the creek’s running clear.”
Ethan said nothing.
He simply watched.
In the mirror, the world was not as it was. It was as it was becoming. Or perhaps as it had always been—just waiting beneath the frost and mud and hesitation.
Ragnhilde tapped once against the glass from outside, her dark eye sharp with knowing.
“The mirror doesn’t lie,” Lucy said quietly.
“No,” Maren added, her voice warm as the coffee she poured. “It just isn’t burdened by today.”
Silence settled over the group—not heavy, but full. Like a held breath.
Toby folded his arms. “So,” he said, “what do you think it shows?”
“Hope,” Martha said immediately.
“Possibility,” Erica added.
Sam tilted his head. “Maybe it shows what we’re willing to see.”
Ethan finally spoke.
“Or what we’re willing to begin.”
They lingered there a while longer, watching the world that was not yet here—but somehow already was.
Then, slowly, as though released from a gentle spell, they returned to their seats.
Outside, March remained March—mud, melting snow, the hesitant drip of thaw.
But something had changed.
Martha finished her coffee and stood. “I’m going home,” she said.
“Everything okay?” Sam asked.
She smiled. “Better than okay. I’ve got work to do.”
Tom laughed. “On the garden?”
“On the beginning.”
One by one, they followed her lead—not all leaving, but all carrying something with them. A quiet shift. A small, defiant green shoot inside the heart.
Ethan stepped back outside, Bear at his side, Isabel blinking at the brighter light. Ragnhilde took wing, circling once overhead.
He glanced back through the window.
For just a moment, he thought he saw it again—the reflection not of March, but of what waited beyond it.
Then it was gone.
He looked out across Stillwater Gleam, the ice thinning, the shoreline softening.
And there—near the base of an old oak—was the smallest hint of green.
Ethan smiled.
“Okay,” he said softly to the morning.
“Let’s begin.”
* * * * * * * * * *
Already, my mug of coffee needs refilling.
I rise, pour another cup, and return to the window where the morning is just beginning to write itself across the sky. March lingers in that in-between place—trees still bare, their branches dark etchings against a light that is only just arriving.
It is a mild morning by Northwoods standards. The kind that carries a quiet promise.
And from the speakers, Rhapsody in Blue moves into the room—playful, expansive, alive with possibility. It feels like the perfect companion to this hour, as though the music itself is stepping out of winter and into something new.
I think of the mirror in the story.
How it did not show the world as it was—but as it was becoming.
And I realize, perhaps that is what all mirrors do.
Not the glass ones on our walls, though even they hold their own quiet truths—but the deeper mirrors. The ones we carry within us. The ones that reflect not just our faces, but our thoughts, our beliefs, our quiet expectations of the day.
Mirrors, in this sense, are honest without being harsh. They show us what we bring before them.
If we bring doubt, they reflect doubt.
If we bring hope, they reflect possibility.
If we bring love, they return it—softened, expanded, made visible.
They are impartial.
And yet…they are powerful.
Because what we see in them often becomes what we believe.
And what we believe…becomes what we begin.
Two thoughts linger with me this morning:
“Be aware of yourself without thinking or looking into the mirror.”
And:
“The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart.” — St. Jerome
Perhaps the invitation of this day is simple.
To pause.
To look—not just outward, but inward.
To ask gently: What am I reflecting into this morning?
Am I seeing only the bare trees and the lingering cold?
Or am I allowing myself to glimpse the green that is already on its way?
Because just like that mirror in Bean & Birch, this day—this life—may not be limited by what is visible right now.
It may be quietly, patiently, becoming.
I take another sip of coffee.
Listen as the music swells and dances.
Watch as the light grows stronger against the horizon.
And I smile at the thought of it.
Of stepping into this day as both the one who looks…
and the one who begins.
“What you see depends not only on what is before you, but on what you are willing to believe is possible.”
~Wylddane
Inside, the morning circle had already formed.
Maren stood behind the counter, orchestrating mugs and laughter. Lucy was arranging pastries with an artist’s precision. At the long table by the window sat Erica, Sam, Martha, Toby, and Tom—hands wrapped around coffee, conversation drifting easily between them like woodsmoke.
Liam and Mabel arrived moments later, bringing with them a gust of March air—damp, soft, and carrying the faintest promise of thaw.
“Morning,” Liam said, brushing snow from his coat. “Feels like the world’s thinking about changing its mind.”
“About time,” Martha replied. “I’m ready for something green.”
“That,” Toby said, leaning back in his chair, “is exactly why you need to see this.”
He gestured toward the far wall.
At first, no one noticed anything unusual. It was just a mirror—tall, framed in old wood, something that might have once belonged to a farmhouse or a forgotten hotel. It leaned slightly, as though it had grown tired of standing perfectly straight.
“When did that get here?” Erica asked.
“Yesterday,” Lucy said. “A man dropped it off. Said it didn’t belong to him anymore. Wouldn’t say much else.”
Sam squinted. “Well, it looks like a mirror.”
“It is,” Toby said, with a grin that suggested otherwise. “Until it isn’t.”
That was enough.
One by one, they rose and gathered before it.
At first, it behaved exactly as expected. It reflected the room: mugs, scarves, laughter, the soft amber glow of morning light. It reflected them as they were—hair slightly mussed, eyes not yet fully awake, cheeks warmed by coffee and company.
Then Bear gave a soft, questioning huff.
And the mirror…shifted.
The change was subtle at first. The window behind them—reflected in the glass—no longer showed the gray-brown March morning. Instead, it shimmered with something greener. Brighter.
“Do you see that?” Sam whispered.
The reflection deepened.
Where there had been bare trees, there were now leaves—new, impossibly tender green. The snow along the edge of Stillwater Gleam had vanished, replaced by open water catching sunlight in silver flashes. Ferns curled at the forest floor. Wildflowers, not yet born, nodded in a breeze that could not exist.
Martha stepped closer. “That’s…my garden,” she said softly. “But—better.”
Erica laughed, half in wonder. “Look at the dock—Tom, you fixed it.”
Tom shook his head slowly. “I haven’t even started.”
Liam crouched slightly, Mabel at his side. “There’s the trail,” he murmured. “But it’s dry. And the creek’s running clear.”
Ethan said nothing.
He simply watched.
In the mirror, the world was not as it was. It was as it was becoming. Or perhaps as it had always been—just waiting beneath the frost and mud and hesitation.
Ragnhilde tapped once against the glass from outside, her dark eye sharp with knowing.
“The mirror doesn’t lie,” Lucy said quietly.
“No,” Maren added, her voice warm as the coffee she poured. “It just isn’t burdened by today.”
Silence settled over the group—not heavy, but full. Like a held breath.
Toby folded his arms. “So,” he said, “what do you think it shows?”
“Hope,” Martha said immediately.
“Possibility,” Erica added.
Sam tilted his head. “Maybe it shows what we’re willing to see.”
Ethan finally spoke.
“Or what we’re willing to begin.”
They lingered there a while longer, watching the world that was not yet here—but somehow already was.
Then, slowly, as though released from a gentle spell, they returned to their seats.
Outside, March remained March—mud, melting snow, the hesitant drip of thaw.
But something had changed.
Martha finished her coffee and stood. “I’m going home,” she said.
“Everything okay?” Sam asked.
She smiled. “Better than okay. I’ve got work to do.”
Tom laughed. “On the garden?”
“On the beginning.”
One by one, they followed her lead—not all leaving, but all carrying something with them. A quiet shift. A small, defiant green shoot inside the heart.
Ethan stepped back outside, Bear at his side, Isabel blinking at the brighter light. Ragnhilde took wing, circling once overhead.
He glanced back through the window.
For just a moment, he thought he saw it again—the reflection not of March, but of what waited beyond it.
Then it was gone.
He looked out across Stillwater Gleam, the ice thinning, the shoreline softening.
And there—near the base of an old oak—was the smallest hint of green.
Ethan smiled.
“Okay,” he said softly to the morning.
“Let’s begin.”
* * * * * * * * * *
Already, my mug of coffee needs refilling.
I rise, pour another cup, and return to the window where the morning is just beginning to write itself across the sky. March lingers in that in-between place—trees still bare, their branches dark etchings against a light that is only just arriving.
It is a mild morning by Northwoods standards. The kind that carries a quiet promise.
And from the speakers, Rhapsody in Blue moves into the room—playful, expansive, alive with possibility. It feels like the perfect companion to this hour, as though the music itself is stepping out of winter and into something new.
I think of the mirror in the story.
How it did not show the world as it was—but as it was becoming.
And I realize, perhaps that is what all mirrors do.
Not the glass ones on our walls, though even they hold their own quiet truths—but the deeper mirrors. The ones we carry within us. The ones that reflect not just our faces, but our thoughts, our beliefs, our quiet expectations of the day.
Mirrors, in this sense, are honest without being harsh. They show us what we bring before them.
If we bring doubt, they reflect doubt.
If we bring hope, they reflect possibility.
If we bring love, they return it—softened, expanded, made visible.
They are impartial.
And yet…they are powerful.
Because what we see in them often becomes what we believe.
And what we believe…becomes what we begin.
Two thoughts linger with me this morning:
“Be aware of yourself without thinking or looking into the mirror.”
And:
“The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart.” — St. Jerome
Perhaps the invitation of this day is simple.
To pause.
To look—not just outward, but inward.
To ask gently: What am I reflecting into this morning?
Am I seeing only the bare trees and the lingering cold?
Or am I allowing myself to glimpse the green that is already on its way?
Because just like that mirror in Bean & Birch, this day—this life—may not be limited by what is visible right now.
It may be quietly, patiently, becoming.
I take another sip of coffee.
Listen as the music swells and dances.
Watch as the light grows stronger against the horizon.
And I smile at the thought of it.
Of stepping into this day as both the one who looks…
and the one who begins.
“What you see depends not only on what is before you, but on what you are willing to believe is possible.”
~Wylddane
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