"Memories" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
It is still dark outside at this early hour, yet already I can sense dawn gathering itself at the horizon—like a soft breath waiting to be released. With the return of standard time, the light comes sooner again, and for that small gift I am quietly grateful. My mug of coffee is warm in my hands, its rich aroma rising like incense to greet the day. The silken notes of James Galway and the London Symphony Orchestra drift through the room--“Dawning of the Day”—as if the music itself is a gentle usher, parting the curtains of night.
Yesterday I had errands to run, tasks simple enough: a stop at the carwash, a few necessities from the store. But even the ordinary can turn into pilgrimage if the heart is willing. When the auto was freshly scrubbed and winter-ready, I rewarded myself with an hour at Barnes & Noble—new books, a cookie, a second cup of coffee, and the delight of unhurried time between pages. It felt like sanctuary.
Then, instead of driving straight home, something called me toward the scenic route. Perhaps it was instinct. Perhaps it was the subtle invitation of a memory, tugging like a loose thread. I passed the old McDonald’s—remodeled now, but still echoing with the laughter of college roommates squeezing into a booth after midnight. I drove by the campus where I earned my degree, where doors opened, friendships rooted, and the future felt like a vast and thrilling horizon. I wound through that familiar old park—still beautiful, still patient—where countless conversations, picnics, and early chapters of adulthood once unfolded like pages in a journal.
By the time I reached the quiet river bend where I stopped to take yesterday’s photograph, I realized where I had been all along: not just on a road, but in the middle of Memory Lane.
Memories, I believe, are not static artifacts. They are the living threads from which the tapestry of the soul is constantly being re-woven. They are not merely “what happened”; they are what continues to happen within us—shaping our sense of self, deepening compassion, reminding us that we have lived, loved, survived, learned, and been carried by grace.
The mind, when viewed mystically, is not a filing cabinet. It is a many-roomed mansion, a vast internal cathedral. Each memory is a chamber with its own acoustics and light. When we revisit these rooms—willingly, reverently—we do not simply recall who we were; we rediscover who we are.
To cherish the past is not to live in it. It is to gather its warmth like autumn leaves and let them compost into wisdom. Gratitude is the alchemy that transforms “what was” into nourishment for “what is.”
Now my coffee mug is empty, and I pause to refill it. Dawn has fully arrived. Outside, the November sky hangs gray and softly expectant. Inside, the wee cottage holds its quiet warmth, its sense of being both shelter and starting point.
A new day begins. New memories will be born today—perhaps unnoticed in the moment, yet destined to glow later like embers in the heart.
I wonder what they will be.
Is that not a wonderful thing?
“The past is not where we live, but where we are rooted.” ~Unknown
~Wylddane
Yesterday I had errands to run, tasks simple enough: a stop at the carwash, a few necessities from the store. But even the ordinary can turn into pilgrimage if the heart is willing. When the auto was freshly scrubbed and winter-ready, I rewarded myself with an hour at Barnes & Noble—new books, a cookie, a second cup of coffee, and the delight of unhurried time between pages. It felt like sanctuary.
Then, instead of driving straight home, something called me toward the scenic route. Perhaps it was instinct. Perhaps it was the subtle invitation of a memory, tugging like a loose thread. I passed the old McDonald’s—remodeled now, but still echoing with the laughter of college roommates squeezing into a booth after midnight. I drove by the campus where I earned my degree, where doors opened, friendships rooted, and the future felt like a vast and thrilling horizon. I wound through that familiar old park—still beautiful, still patient—where countless conversations, picnics, and early chapters of adulthood once unfolded like pages in a journal.
By the time I reached the quiet river bend where I stopped to take yesterday’s photograph, I realized where I had been all along: not just on a road, but in the middle of Memory Lane.
Memories, I believe, are not static artifacts. They are the living threads from which the tapestry of the soul is constantly being re-woven. They are not merely “what happened”; they are what continues to happen within us—shaping our sense of self, deepening compassion, reminding us that we have lived, loved, survived, learned, and been carried by grace.
The mind, when viewed mystically, is not a filing cabinet. It is a many-roomed mansion, a vast internal cathedral. Each memory is a chamber with its own acoustics and light. When we revisit these rooms—willingly, reverently—we do not simply recall who we were; we rediscover who we are.
To cherish the past is not to live in it. It is to gather its warmth like autumn leaves and let them compost into wisdom. Gratitude is the alchemy that transforms “what was” into nourishment for “what is.”
Now my coffee mug is empty, and I pause to refill it. Dawn has fully arrived. Outside, the November sky hangs gray and softly expectant. Inside, the wee cottage holds its quiet warmth, its sense of being both shelter and starting point.
A new day begins. New memories will be born today—perhaps unnoticed in the moment, yet destined to glow later like embers in the heart.
I wonder what they will be.
Is that not a wonderful thing?
“The past is not where we live, but where we are rooted.” ~Unknown
~Wylddane
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