"Oil Painting...The Bridge" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The mist was already lifting when the kayaker pushed his red kayak into the quiet waters of the Clam River. The morning had that unmistakable November chill—damp, clinging, and rich with the scent of fallen leaves returning to earth. Beside him, perched like a seasoned first mate, sat Harry the cat, tail curled neatly around his paws, golden eyes alert to every ripple.
The river was unhurried, its surface holding the reflected colors of late autumn—rust, bronze, deep evergreen, and the softest whisper of gold. The world felt half dreaming, half awake.
They drifted forward in that gentle silence, the kayak slicing through the smooth water with hardly a sound. Harry sniffed the air as though he were reading some invisible message written on the breeze.
Ahead stood the old stone and concrete bridge—the very bridge captured in the painting he had done the day before. In person, it looked even more ancient, its weathered boards moss-kissed, its shadow stretching across the river like a doorway into another world. Bare branches arched overhead like the arms of quiet sentinels, cradling the moment in a hush of expectancy.
As they neared the bridge, the air shifted.
The light dropped.
The temperature dipped.
And the mist thickened around them as if gathering them gently into a story older than memory.
Harry let out a soft chirrup. The kayaker dipped his paddle once, twice. The water beneath the bridge glowed faintly—gold, warm, pulsing. It looked as though the river itself held a lantern in the deep.
Then, in a breath of silence, they crossed the threshold.
Under the bridge, time loosened its grip.
The world held its breath.
The kayaker felt a warmth bloom in his chest—not physical warmth, but something like recognition. As though the river was telling him a secret he had always known but had forgotten in the rush of days. Harry leaned forward, whiskers trembling, eyes reflecting the golden shimmer that rose up from the water like a blessing.
A voice—not heard but sensed—unfolded around them:
“What is meant for you does not pass you by.
It circles, waiting, returning…
until you are ready.”
The kayaker closed his eyes. Memories, hopes, unanswered longings, unspoken gratitude—each drifted forward like leaves on a gentle current. He saw moments he had not yet lived. He felt forgiveness he had not requested. Joy he had been too busy to notice.
When he opened his eyes, the light had changed.
The magical glow faded to the soft daylight of November.
They drifted out from beneath the bridge, back into the subdued colors of the morning. The enchantment lingered, but only as a warmth, a knowing, a quiet promise. Harry stretched, yawned, and looked satisfyingly smug—as though he had expected magic all along.
The kayaker dipped his paddle and continued downstream, the world somehow sharper, brighter, more alive.
* * * * * * * * * *
And then—like gently surfacing from a dream—I awaken from this reverie.
Here I sit in the wee cottage, the world settling back around me. Light is rising on the horizon. A November sky stretches across the windows—pale blue, brushed with gray, bare branches etched like ink strokes, the forest wrapped in its quiet.
My mug of coffee warms my hands.
The aroma fills the room.
And the magical notes of Patrick Doyle’s “Harry in Winter” drift softly through the cottage.
Two thoughts I recently read return to me, as though they too were circling back at exactly the right moment:
“What is meant for you doesn’t pass you; it circles you again and again until you are ready.”
~ The Universe
And from Dr. Wayne Dyer:
“When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.”
How beautifully these truths settle into the heart on a morning like this—quiet, contemplative, touched by grace.
Perhaps it is not only the world outside that transforms in November light.
Perhaps it is we who are invited to see differently.
To notice the magic beneath the bridge.
To welcome what circles back.
To begin the day with new eyes.
And so I begin this one—grateful, centered, open--
a day that feels like a gift.
“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” ~Marcel Proust
~Wylddane
The river was unhurried, its surface holding the reflected colors of late autumn—rust, bronze, deep evergreen, and the softest whisper of gold. The world felt half dreaming, half awake.
They drifted forward in that gentle silence, the kayak slicing through the smooth water with hardly a sound. Harry sniffed the air as though he were reading some invisible message written on the breeze.
Ahead stood the old stone and concrete bridge—the very bridge captured in the painting he had done the day before. In person, it looked even more ancient, its weathered boards moss-kissed, its shadow stretching across the river like a doorway into another world. Bare branches arched overhead like the arms of quiet sentinels, cradling the moment in a hush of expectancy.
As they neared the bridge, the air shifted.
The light dropped.
The temperature dipped.
And the mist thickened around them as if gathering them gently into a story older than memory.
Harry let out a soft chirrup. The kayaker dipped his paddle once, twice. The water beneath the bridge glowed faintly—gold, warm, pulsing. It looked as though the river itself held a lantern in the deep.
Then, in a breath of silence, they crossed the threshold.
Under the bridge, time loosened its grip.
The world held its breath.
The kayaker felt a warmth bloom in his chest—not physical warmth, but something like recognition. As though the river was telling him a secret he had always known but had forgotten in the rush of days. Harry leaned forward, whiskers trembling, eyes reflecting the golden shimmer that rose up from the water like a blessing.
A voice—not heard but sensed—unfolded around them:
“What is meant for you does not pass you by.
It circles, waiting, returning…
until you are ready.”
The kayaker closed his eyes. Memories, hopes, unanswered longings, unspoken gratitude—each drifted forward like leaves on a gentle current. He saw moments he had not yet lived. He felt forgiveness he had not requested. Joy he had been too busy to notice.
When he opened his eyes, the light had changed.
The magical glow faded to the soft daylight of November.
They drifted out from beneath the bridge, back into the subdued colors of the morning. The enchantment lingered, but only as a warmth, a knowing, a quiet promise. Harry stretched, yawned, and looked satisfyingly smug—as though he had expected magic all along.
The kayaker dipped his paddle and continued downstream, the world somehow sharper, brighter, more alive.
* * * * * * * * * *
And then—like gently surfacing from a dream—I awaken from this reverie.
Here I sit in the wee cottage, the world settling back around me. Light is rising on the horizon. A November sky stretches across the windows—pale blue, brushed with gray, bare branches etched like ink strokes, the forest wrapped in its quiet.
My mug of coffee warms my hands.
The aroma fills the room.
And the magical notes of Patrick Doyle’s “Harry in Winter” drift softly through the cottage.
Two thoughts I recently read return to me, as though they too were circling back at exactly the right moment:
“What is meant for you doesn’t pass you; it circles you again and again until you are ready.”
~ The Universe
And from Dr. Wayne Dyer:
“When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.”
How beautifully these truths settle into the heart on a morning like this—quiet, contemplative, touched by grace.
Perhaps it is not only the world outside that transforms in November light.
Perhaps it is we who are invited to see differently.
To notice the magic beneath the bridge.
To welcome what circles back.
To begin the day with new eyes.
And so I begin this one—grateful, centered, open--
a day that feels like a gift.
“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” ~Marcel Proust
~Wylddane
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