"The Warning of the Forest" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
~often attributed to Albert Einstein
The strange behavior began with the birds.
At first, Ethan thought nothing of it.
He stood on the porch of his wee cottage on the edge of Lone Pine, mug of coffee warming his hands, while Bear sat beside him watching the pale grey sky. Isabel, as usual, rode comfortably inside Ethan’s half-zipped jacket, only her orange-and-white head visible as she blinked at the morning light.
Ragnhilde, the raven, circled overhead.
But instead of her usual lazy spiral, she swooped low, landed on the porch railing, and let out a harsh kraaa that sounded almost impatient.
“Something on your mind this morning?” Ethan asked.
Bear lifted his head. His ears pricked forward.
From the woods beyond the clearing came the sudden crashing sound of deer running.
Not one or two.
A whole herd.
Ethan frowned.
Deer rarely ran like that without reason.
Before he could think further, a pickup truck rolled slowly up the snowy driveway. Liam stepped out, Mabel hopping gracefully from the passenger side, her black-and-white coat bright against the snow.
“Morning,” Liam called. “You noticing anything odd?”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “The deer?”
“And the geese.”
Ethan looked up.
Sure enough, a loose V-formation of Canadian geese crossed overhead—but instead of flying north toward spring, they circled uncertainly, honking in confused agitation before drifting south again.
“That’s not right,” Ethan murmured.
Ragnhilde gave another sharp call and launched from the railing, flying toward the forest.
She stopped halfway across the clearing and circled.
Then circled again.
Waiting.
“Well,” Liam said quietly. “Looks like we’re being summoned.”
Into the WoodsThe snow that had fallen overnight softened the forest floor.
Ethan, Liam, Bear, and Mabel followed the raven into the pines, Isabel peering curiously from Ethan’s jacket.
The deeper they went, the stranger things became.
A fox stood in the trail watching them pass.
Owls blinked sleepily from branches even though morning had arrived.
Squirrels chattered nervously but didn’t run.
It felt less like walking through a forest and more like walking through an audience.
Finally, Ragnhilde landed in a small clearing.
At its center stood an enormous old white pine—easily two hundred years old.
But something was wrong.
Its needles were fading.
Patches of bark had cracked and split, revealing darkened wood beneath.
Liam knelt beside the trunk.
“Blight,” he said quietly.
Ethan felt a coldness that had nothing to do with March snow.
“This tree… it’s ancient.”
Mabel whined softly.
Bear lowered his head.
And suddenly Ethan remembered an old story told by a quiet Ojibwe elder years ago at a summer gathering by the lake.
The elder had spoken of a guardian spirit of the forest.
Not a creature.
Not a ghost.
But something older.
A presence that lived in the oldest trees and watched over the balance of the Northwoods.
“If the old ones fall,” the elder had said, “the forest forgets how to breathe.”
Ethan placed a hand gently against the trunk.
The wood felt strangely warm.
Almost alive.
Almost… tired.
“The animals know,” Ethan whispered.
Liam nodded slowly.
“They’re trying to tell us something.”
Ragnhilde gave a softer call this time.
And in the stillness of the clearing, the wind moved through the branches of the surrounding pines with a long, low whisper.
Not frightening.
Not angry.
Just weary.
Ethan stood.
“Well,” he said quietly, “then we’d better help.”
Liam smiled faintly.
“Looks like we’ve been given a job.”
Above them, the raven lifted into the pale March sky.
And all through the forest, the animals began to settle.
As if they knew the message had finally been heard.
* * * * * * * * * *
When I opened the curtains this morning, the world had quietly changed during the night.
Yesterday’s rain had turned to snow.
Outside my windows the Northwoods had become a white winter wonderland again—soft branches, quiet roofs, and the gentle hush that only fresh snow seems to bring.
It will not last.
After all, it is March.
Soon the snow will soften, melt, and disappear. Spring will take over its work of renewal. Brown grass will reappear. Ice will loosen its hold on lakes and rivers.
But for this moment, winter has returned for one last bow.
And I find myself simply enjoying it.
A warm mug of coffee rests comfortably in my hands. The rich aroma rises with the steam, and the music flowing softly through the room—Peter Maxwell Davies’ Farewell to Stromness—adds its own quiet grace to the morning.
It feels like the world has paused.
In moments like this, I often think of something Dr. Wayne Dyer once said:
“Change your view of the world to one of awe and bewilderment. Rather than looking for miracles, shift to seeing everything as miraculous.”
It is easy to search for miracles in the dramatic moments of life—the unexpected turn of fortune, the great achievements, the rare and extraordinary events.
But perhaps the deeper invitation is to recognize that the miracle is already here.
It is in the quiet snowfall that arrives while we sleep.
It is in the warmth of coffee on a cold morning.
It is in the music drifting gently through a quiet room.
It is in the way the world continues—breathing, changing, renewing itself—whether we notice or not.
And perhaps the true practice of living is simply learning to notice.
To look out the window and see not just snow, but wonder.
To listen to a piece of music and hear not just notes, but beauty.
To sip a cup of coffee and recognize that even this simple moment is part of something miraculous.
The snow will melt.
Spring will arrive.
But this morning—this quiet, snowy March morning—is a miracle too.
All we have to do is see it.
~Wylddane
~often attributed to Albert Einstein
The strange behavior began with the birds.
At first, Ethan thought nothing of it.
He stood on the porch of his wee cottage on the edge of Lone Pine, mug of coffee warming his hands, while Bear sat beside him watching the pale grey sky. Isabel, as usual, rode comfortably inside Ethan’s half-zipped jacket, only her orange-and-white head visible as she blinked at the morning light.
Ragnhilde, the raven, circled overhead.
But instead of her usual lazy spiral, she swooped low, landed on the porch railing, and let out a harsh kraaa that sounded almost impatient.
“Something on your mind this morning?” Ethan asked.
Bear lifted his head. His ears pricked forward.
From the woods beyond the clearing came the sudden crashing sound of deer running.
Not one or two.
A whole herd.
Ethan frowned.
Deer rarely ran like that without reason.
Before he could think further, a pickup truck rolled slowly up the snowy driveway. Liam stepped out, Mabel hopping gracefully from the passenger side, her black-and-white coat bright against the snow.
“Morning,” Liam called. “You noticing anything odd?”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “The deer?”
“And the geese.”
Ethan looked up.
Sure enough, a loose V-formation of Canadian geese crossed overhead—but instead of flying north toward spring, they circled uncertainly, honking in confused agitation before drifting south again.
“That’s not right,” Ethan murmured.
Ragnhilde gave another sharp call and launched from the railing, flying toward the forest.
She stopped halfway across the clearing and circled.
Then circled again.
Waiting.
“Well,” Liam said quietly. “Looks like we’re being summoned.”
Into the WoodsThe snow that had fallen overnight softened the forest floor.
Ethan, Liam, Bear, and Mabel followed the raven into the pines, Isabel peering curiously from Ethan’s jacket.
The deeper they went, the stranger things became.
A fox stood in the trail watching them pass.
Owls blinked sleepily from branches even though morning had arrived.
Squirrels chattered nervously but didn’t run.
It felt less like walking through a forest and more like walking through an audience.
Finally, Ragnhilde landed in a small clearing.
At its center stood an enormous old white pine—easily two hundred years old.
But something was wrong.
Its needles were fading.
Patches of bark had cracked and split, revealing darkened wood beneath.
Liam knelt beside the trunk.
“Blight,” he said quietly.
Ethan felt a coldness that had nothing to do with March snow.
“This tree… it’s ancient.”
Mabel whined softly.
Bear lowered his head.
And suddenly Ethan remembered an old story told by a quiet Ojibwe elder years ago at a summer gathering by the lake.
The elder had spoken of a guardian spirit of the forest.
Not a creature.
Not a ghost.
But something older.
A presence that lived in the oldest trees and watched over the balance of the Northwoods.
“If the old ones fall,” the elder had said, “the forest forgets how to breathe.”
Ethan placed a hand gently against the trunk.
The wood felt strangely warm.
Almost alive.
Almost… tired.
“The animals know,” Ethan whispered.
Liam nodded slowly.
“They’re trying to tell us something.”
Ragnhilde gave a softer call this time.
And in the stillness of the clearing, the wind moved through the branches of the surrounding pines with a long, low whisper.
Not frightening.
Not angry.
Just weary.
Ethan stood.
“Well,” he said quietly, “then we’d better help.”
Liam smiled faintly.
“Looks like we’ve been given a job.”
Above them, the raven lifted into the pale March sky.
And all through the forest, the animals began to settle.
As if they knew the message had finally been heard.
* * * * * * * * * *
When I opened the curtains this morning, the world had quietly changed during the night.
Yesterday’s rain had turned to snow.
Outside my windows the Northwoods had become a white winter wonderland again—soft branches, quiet roofs, and the gentle hush that only fresh snow seems to bring.
It will not last.
After all, it is March.
Soon the snow will soften, melt, and disappear. Spring will take over its work of renewal. Brown grass will reappear. Ice will loosen its hold on lakes and rivers.
But for this moment, winter has returned for one last bow.
And I find myself simply enjoying it.
A warm mug of coffee rests comfortably in my hands. The rich aroma rises with the steam, and the music flowing softly through the room—Peter Maxwell Davies’ Farewell to Stromness—adds its own quiet grace to the morning.
It feels like the world has paused.
In moments like this, I often think of something Dr. Wayne Dyer once said:
“Change your view of the world to one of awe and bewilderment. Rather than looking for miracles, shift to seeing everything as miraculous.”
It is easy to search for miracles in the dramatic moments of life—the unexpected turn of fortune, the great achievements, the rare and extraordinary events.
But perhaps the deeper invitation is to recognize that the miracle is already here.
It is in the quiet snowfall that arrives while we sleep.
It is in the warmth of coffee on a cold morning.
It is in the music drifting gently through a quiet room.
It is in the way the world continues—breathing, changing, renewing itself—whether we notice or not.
And perhaps the true practice of living is simply learning to notice.
To look out the window and see not just snow, but wonder.
To listen to a piece of music and hear not just notes, but beauty.
To sip a cup of coffee and recognize that even this simple moment is part of something miraculous.
The snow will melt.
Spring will arrive.
But this morning—this quiet, snowy March morning—is a miracle too.
All we have to do is see it.
~Wylddane
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