"Garden Moments" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“Sometimes I need only to stand wherever I am to be blessed.” ~Mary Oliver
In the tender hours before dawn, I often find myself drawn into the quiet embrace of my garden. It is a spirit-soothing ritual—one that begins while the world still slumbers and the first light of day is held gently behind the horizon. Barefoot or slippered, coffee in hand, I wander among green leaves and blooms, letting the stillness guide me back to myself.
This morning, like so many others, the garden greeted me with a symphony of birdsong. Warblers, robins, finches—each note a reminder that life still stirs, that something sacred remains. A cottontail rabbit, my silent morning companion, nibbled nearby in the cool shade. We are familiar to one another now, fellow seekers of peace.
And then—like a celestial curtain rising—the first golden beams of sunlight slipped through the trees and across the trellis. They found the deep purple clematis blooms clinging to their wooden frame, illuminating their velvet petals as if nature herself had lit a candle against the darkness. I paused there, in front of those blooms, my heart stirred by their beauty—and heavy with sorrow.
Because despite this splendor, my thoughts were anything but still this morning. They arrived jumbled and jagged, echoing the chaos of the world beyond my garden gate. I found myself unable to summon the usual joy for Independence Day. The idea of celebration felt hollow—no fireworks could distract from what has become of the country I once held dear.
I never imagined I would live to see the day when this nation would build camps that echo the darkest parts of history—yet here we are. Florida’s cruelty is not an outlier; it is a symptom of a greater unraveling. We cloak our atrocities in legality and flags, but a cage is still a cage, no matter how brightly it is painted.
Yesterday I came across a list of the world’s freest nations. Finland was first. Canada fifth. The United States? Fifty-seventh. I wasn’t surprised. Saddened, yes. Angered, yes. But not surprised. Freedom here has become an illusion—a word whispered in anthem and pledge, yet stripped of meaning in practice. The truth is stark: many of us are not free. Not truly.
And yet—I return to the clematis. To the rabbit. To the birdsong. To this small patch of earth that reminds me who I am. In this sacred space, I remember that mourning and beauty can coexist. That despair does not cancel out hope—it merely demands that we work harder to find it.
I may not feel like celebrating a nation today, but I can celebrate this morning. This moment. The resilience of flowers. The quiet dignity of a rabbit. The healing power of a garden. And maybe, just maybe, in these small acts of reverence, I reclaim a freedom that no government can give—or take away.
~Wylddane
In the tender hours before dawn, I often find myself drawn into the quiet embrace of my garden. It is a spirit-soothing ritual—one that begins while the world still slumbers and the first light of day is held gently behind the horizon. Barefoot or slippered, coffee in hand, I wander among green leaves and blooms, letting the stillness guide me back to myself.
This morning, like so many others, the garden greeted me with a symphony of birdsong. Warblers, robins, finches—each note a reminder that life still stirs, that something sacred remains. A cottontail rabbit, my silent morning companion, nibbled nearby in the cool shade. We are familiar to one another now, fellow seekers of peace.
And then—like a celestial curtain rising—the first golden beams of sunlight slipped through the trees and across the trellis. They found the deep purple clematis blooms clinging to their wooden frame, illuminating their velvet petals as if nature herself had lit a candle against the darkness. I paused there, in front of those blooms, my heart stirred by their beauty—and heavy with sorrow.
Because despite this splendor, my thoughts were anything but still this morning. They arrived jumbled and jagged, echoing the chaos of the world beyond my garden gate. I found myself unable to summon the usual joy for Independence Day. The idea of celebration felt hollow—no fireworks could distract from what has become of the country I once held dear.
I never imagined I would live to see the day when this nation would build camps that echo the darkest parts of history—yet here we are. Florida’s cruelty is not an outlier; it is a symptom of a greater unraveling. We cloak our atrocities in legality and flags, but a cage is still a cage, no matter how brightly it is painted.
Yesterday I came across a list of the world’s freest nations. Finland was first. Canada fifth. The United States? Fifty-seventh. I wasn’t surprised. Saddened, yes. Angered, yes. But not surprised. Freedom here has become an illusion—a word whispered in anthem and pledge, yet stripped of meaning in practice. The truth is stark: many of us are not free. Not truly.
And yet—I return to the clematis. To the rabbit. To the birdsong. To this small patch of earth that reminds me who I am. In this sacred space, I remember that mourning and beauty can coexist. That despair does not cancel out hope—it merely demands that we work harder to find it.
I may not feel like celebrating a nation today, but I can celebrate this morning. This moment. The resilience of flowers. The quiet dignity of a rabbit. The healing power of a garden. And maybe, just maybe, in these small acts of reverence, I reclaim a freedom that no government can give—or take away.
~Wylddane
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