"The Ornament" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Adrian paused on the snowy walkway, his breath rising in soft puffs that glimmered in the lantern-light. The evening was quiet—one of those December nights when the world seemed to lean in and listen. In the window of the old cedar-sided cottage before him hung a single ornament: a round glass bauble threaded with frost, glowing with the warm gold of firelight inside.
He hadn’t meant to stop. He was simply walking home, hands shoved in pockets, his mind circling the day’s worries. But something about that ornament invited him closer—the way it held the cottage’s entire interior within its curved surface, like a tiny snow globe that had captured a moment of peace.
He stepped forward, gazing at the reflection.
Inside the ornament, he saw a room lit by gentle amber light. Candles glowed on a wooden mantel. A garland of winter greenery lay across the beam. A chair—well-worn, inviting—sat near the fire. It was a place that looked lived in, loved, warmed by more than flames.
As Adrian stared into the delicate globe, the edges of his worry softened. A curious warmth stirred in his chest, as if the small reflected room had opened a secret door inside him. The snow began to fall more thickly, soft flakes kissing his shoulders, blurring the sounds of the world.
He imagined stepping into that quiet cottage—the one inside the ornament—imagined sitting by that fire, imagined listening not to troubles but to the slow crackling of logs, the hush of falling snow.
And something shifted.
It wasn’t dramatic, not a sudden revelation. More like a feather landing on the heart. He realized that peace was not something he had to chase or earn. It was something he could choose—here, now, even standing in the cold.
He smiled, just a little, the tension in his shoulders releasing like a breath he had held for too long.
The ornament swayed slightly in the window, its ribbon catching a faint breeze. Adrian lifted a hand in thanks—not knowing why, only knowing it felt right.
Then he turned toward home, lighter than he had felt in many days. The snowflakes sparkled like tiny blessings in the glow of streetlamps as he walked.
And somewhere behind him, inside the old cottage’s window, the ornament glimmered…as if pleased.
* * * * * * * * * *
And now,
as the reverie gently loosens its hold,
I find myself once again in the warm wee cottage.
The spell of the story fades like mist, yet a trace of its peace lingers—settling comfortably beside me. My coffee mug is warm in my hands. The world outside the windows is dark and rainy, a soft, misty November veil pressed against the glass. How quietly the morning arrives.
Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 1 drifts through the room, each note like a small star falling into the silence—sparkling, delicate, unhurried. The music seems to rise from the very edges of dawn, filling the cottage with a tender, luminous calm.
I breathe.
And I remember Buddha’s teaching:
“Do not dwell on the past, do not dream of the future,
concentrate the mind on the present moment.”
So I do.
I concentrate on the warmth of the mug in my hands,
the soft glow of lamplight,
the rain whispering against the windows,
the sweetness of simply being alive.
Is it not wonderful—truly wonderful—to be here,
in this moment, on this new day?
And so, with gratitude,
with quiet hope,
with a mind gently centered in the now…
I begin this day.
“Within every quiet moment waits a universe of peace.” ~Anon
~Wylddane
He hadn’t meant to stop. He was simply walking home, hands shoved in pockets, his mind circling the day’s worries. But something about that ornament invited him closer—the way it held the cottage’s entire interior within its curved surface, like a tiny snow globe that had captured a moment of peace.
He stepped forward, gazing at the reflection.
Inside the ornament, he saw a room lit by gentle amber light. Candles glowed on a wooden mantel. A garland of winter greenery lay across the beam. A chair—well-worn, inviting—sat near the fire. It was a place that looked lived in, loved, warmed by more than flames.
As Adrian stared into the delicate globe, the edges of his worry softened. A curious warmth stirred in his chest, as if the small reflected room had opened a secret door inside him. The snow began to fall more thickly, soft flakes kissing his shoulders, blurring the sounds of the world.
He imagined stepping into that quiet cottage—the one inside the ornament—imagined sitting by that fire, imagined listening not to troubles but to the slow crackling of logs, the hush of falling snow.
And something shifted.
It wasn’t dramatic, not a sudden revelation. More like a feather landing on the heart. He realized that peace was not something he had to chase or earn. It was something he could choose—here, now, even standing in the cold.
He smiled, just a little, the tension in his shoulders releasing like a breath he had held for too long.
The ornament swayed slightly in the window, its ribbon catching a faint breeze. Adrian lifted a hand in thanks—not knowing why, only knowing it felt right.
Then he turned toward home, lighter than he had felt in many days. The snowflakes sparkled like tiny blessings in the glow of streetlamps as he walked.
And somewhere behind him, inside the old cottage’s window, the ornament glimmered…as if pleased.
* * * * * * * * * *
And now,
as the reverie gently loosens its hold,
I find myself once again in the warm wee cottage.
The spell of the story fades like mist, yet a trace of its peace lingers—settling comfortably beside me. My coffee mug is warm in my hands. The world outside the windows is dark and rainy, a soft, misty November veil pressed against the glass. How quietly the morning arrives.
Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 1 drifts through the room, each note like a small star falling into the silence—sparkling, delicate, unhurried. The music seems to rise from the very edges of dawn, filling the cottage with a tender, luminous calm.
I breathe.
And I remember Buddha’s teaching:
“Do not dwell on the past, do not dream of the future,
concentrate the mind on the present moment.”
So I do.
I concentrate on the warmth of the mug in my hands,
the soft glow of lamplight,
the rain whispering against the windows,
the sweetness of simply being alive.
Is it not wonderful—truly wonderful—to be here,
in this moment, on this new day?
And so, with gratitude,
with quiet hope,
with a mind gently centered in the now…
I begin this day.
“Within every quiet moment waits a universe of peace.” ~Anon
~Wylddane
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