"Little Butternut Lake Reflections" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The wind coming off Little Butternut Lake carried the faintest promise of snow—just enough to whisper across the skin. Ethan tightened the zipper of his coat as the brisk November air nipped at his cheeks. He had come to his family’s old cabin for solitude, for quiet, for a Thanksgiving away from the noise of well-meant conversations and the tug of memories that sometimes felt too heavy.
Little Butternut lay in front of him like a sheet of tempered steel. The late afternoon sky was bruised violet, blue, and silver—the palette of November when winter begins testing its voice. Standing at the edge of the dock, Ethan felt the familiar ache of nostalgia, that mixture of peace and loneliness that only certain lakes can conjure this time of year.
He turned to go back inside when something shimmered at the corner of his eye.
A glint on the lake.
Not a fish.
Not the sky.
Something… other.
He stepped forward. The wood of the dock creaked under his boots. At first he thought it was simply the play of light, but no—what lay on the water’s surface was impossible.
In the lake’s mirrored face, a golden autumn forest blazed with color—reds, yellows, and deep glowing ambers. Sunlight poured through the branches in warm, honeyed shafts. The real woods behind him were bare, skeletal, November-gray. But the reflection was a world still alive with October fire.
Then he saw it.
A path winding between those radiant trees.
And hanging from a branch beside it…
an old-fashioned lantern, glowing softly, as though welcoming him home.
Ethan leaned closer. Heat radiated from the reflection—gentle, comforting, infused with scents that made his chest tighten: woodsmoke… sage… and unmistakably, the aroma of roasting turkey. He heard it then—muffled laughter, faint chatter, clinking dishes, the murmur of voices he knew. He felt, impossibly, the presence of those he missed. Those living. Those gone. Those who still lived in the lantern-light of his heart.
A warmth rose in his eyes.
His reflection in the lake shifted, just slightly—tilting its head, giving a quiet, knowing smile. As if encouraging him. As if whispering: You are not as alone as you think.
Ethan reached a trembling hand toward the glowing surface, expecting icy water. Instead—his fingers passed through warm, solid air, like touching the border of a dream.
His breath caught.
This was no trick of the light.
No illusion.
It was a doorway. A memory made living. A reminder.
A reminder of love.
A reminder of home.
The lantern’s glow brightened for a moment, soft and golden. Ethan felt his heartbeat steady, felt a long-held tension in his chest loosen. He gently withdrew his hand, stepping back from the lake’s edge.
The world around him returned—gray November woods, the whisper of cold wind, the stillness of dusk. But inside him, something had changed.
He turned toward the cabin, but then paused.
“No,” he whispered. “Not the cabin. Home.”
He started walking faster, then running—boots crunching over frost-hardened leaves, breath forming tiny clouds in the darkening air. A warmth bloomed through him, powerful and sure.
Behind him, down on the lake, the lantern glowed one last time.
A benediction.
A blessing.
Then faded softly back into the November water.
Ethan didn’t see it.
But he felt it.
And that was enough.
* * * * * * * * * *
And now I pull myself gently from this reverie—the lingering glow of the lantern fading like a soft whisper. Here in the wee cottage in the Northwoods, the world is dark beyond my window. I cannot yet see the forest or the lake, only the faint reflection of my lamp in the glass. A winter storm warning murmurs through the morning forecast, promising heavy snow later today.
But inside, all is warm. All is peaceful.
My coffee tastes especially rich this morning. I take another sip, savoring the warmth, grateful for the small blessing of it. And in the background, the slow, reverent tones of Hauser’s cello begin to play his version of Karl Jenkins’ “Benedictus.” What a perfect accompaniment to this quiet hour—its gentle rise and fall feels like a prayer breathed into the room.
Dr. Wayne Dyer once said:
“Begin to look at your entire surroundings in a new light.
Try to drink in as much of your life space as you possibly can.”
Most assuredly…I am doing exactly that this morning.
The wee cottage.
The whisper of the coming storm.
The soft glow of the lamp.
My hands around this mug.
The music.
The stillness.
And the knowledge that every day—every hour—offers a lantern somewhere, if I am willing to look for its light.
I take another sip and give thanks for this simple blessing—the chance to awaken, to breathe, to begin again.
A wonderful day lies ahead.
Yes—a wonderful day.
And so my day begins.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Blessings often arrive quietly--
a reflection, a memory, a whisper inviting us home.”
~Wylddane
Little Butternut lay in front of him like a sheet of tempered steel. The late afternoon sky was bruised violet, blue, and silver—the palette of November when winter begins testing its voice. Standing at the edge of the dock, Ethan felt the familiar ache of nostalgia, that mixture of peace and loneliness that only certain lakes can conjure this time of year.
He turned to go back inside when something shimmered at the corner of his eye.
A glint on the lake.
Not a fish.
Not the sky.
Something… other.
He stepped forward. The wood of the dock creaked under his boots. At first he thought it was simply the play of light, but no—what lay on the water’s surface was impossible.
In the lake’s mirrored face, a golden autumn forest blazed with color—reds, yellows, and deep glowing ambers. Sunlight poured through the branches in warm, honeyed shafts. The real woods behind him were bare, skeletal, November-gray. But the reflection was a world still alive with October fire.
Then he saw it.
A path winding between those radiant trees.
And hanging from a branch beside it…
an old-fashioned lantern, glowing softly, as though welcoming him home.
Ethan leaned closer. Heat radiated from the reflection—gentle, comforting, infused with scents that made his chest tighten: woodsmoke… sage… and unmistakably, the aroma of roasting turkey. He heard it then—muffled laughter, faint chatter, clinking dishes, the murmur of voices he knew. He felt, impossibly, the presence of those he missed. Those living. Those gone. Those who still lived in the lantern-light of his heart.
A warmth rose in his eyes.
His reflection in the lake shifted, just slightly—tilting its head, giving a quiet, knowing smile. As if encouraging him. As if whispering: You are not as alone as you think.
Ethan reached a trembling hand toward the glowing surface, expecting icy water. Instead—his fingers passed through warm, solid air, like touching the border of a dream.
His breath caught.
This was no trick of the light.
No illusion.
It was a doorway. A memory made living. A reminder.
A reminder of love.
A reminder of home.
The lantern’s glow brightened for a moment, soft and golden. Ethan felt his heartbeat steady, felt a long-held tension in his chest loosen. He gently withdrew his hand, stepping back from the lake’s edge.
The world around him returned—gray November woods, the whisper of cold wind, the stillness of dusk. But inside him, something had changed.
He turned toward the cabin, but then paused.
“No,” he whispered. “Not the cabin. Home.”
He started walking faster, then running—boots crunching over frost-hardened leaves, breath forming tiny clouds in the darkening air. A warmth bloomed through him, powerful and sure.
Behind him, down on the lake, the lantern glowed one last time.
A benediction.
A blessing.
Then faded softly back into the November water.
Ethan didn’t see it.
But he felt it.
And that was enough.
* * * * * * * * * *
And now I pull myself gently from this reverie—the lingering glow of the lantern fading like a soft whisper. Here in the wee cottage in the Northwoods, the world is dark beyond my window. I cannot yet see the forest or the lake, only the faint reflection of my lamp in the glass. A winter storm warning murmurs through the morning forecast, promising heavy snow later today.
But inside, all is warm. All is peaceful.
My coffee tastes especially rich this morning. I take another sip, savoring the warmth, grateful for the small blessing of it. And in the background, the slow, reverent tones of Hauser’s cello begin to play his version of Karl Jenkins’ “Benedictus.” What a perfect accompaniment to this quiet hour—its gentle rise and fall feels like a prayer breathed into the room.
Dr. Wayne Dyer once said:
“Begin to look at your entire surroundings in a new light.
Try to drink in as much of your life space as you possibly can.”
Most assuredly…I am doing exactly that this morning.
The wee cottage.
The whisper of the coming storm.
The soft glow of the lamp.
My hands around this mug.
The music.
The stillness.
And the knowledge that every day—every hour—offers a lantern somewhere, if I am willing to look for its light.
I take another sip and give thanks for this simple blessing—the chance to awaken, to breathe, to begin again.
A wonderful day lies ahead.
Yes—a wonderful day.
And so my day begins.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Blessings often arrive quietly--
a reflection, a memory, a whisper inviting us home.”
~Wylddane
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