"Snowballs in August" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
This morning, as the sun lifted its golden face above the tree line and the air hung thick with humidity—already heavy, already hot—I took my usual garden walk with a mug of coffee in hand and my cat, Leona, at my side. The forecast promises another scorcher. The dew point has crept into that “oppressive” range that makes the very air feel like a damp woolen blanket. And yet, despite the heat, despite the almost comical impossibility of imagining snow, I stumbled upon a small and glorious miracle.
Tucked quietly in the dappled shade, kissed by early morning light, the snowball bush had begun to bloom.
Snowballs, we always called them—my parents did, and so did I. Their real name, of course, is likely hydrangea. But in my heart, they will forever be snowballs. Full, soft clusters of petals that look for all the world like they were rolled together by some celestial child playing in a midsummer dream. This morning, the blossoms shimmered in the sunlight as if lit from within. Around them, black-eyed Susans swayed in gentle contrast—golden halos against a green sea. It was a moment so quiet, so full of grace, it nearly took my breath away.
Standing there, I felt the boundaries of time dissolve. For a few moments, there was no yesterday, no tomorrow. Only the shimmering snowballs of August and the hush of the morning. I breathed it in—this beauty, this stillness—and felt it settle into the marrow of my being.
Is it not a marvel how nature surprises us? Snowballs in August. A reminder not of winter to come, but of the endless creativity of the Universe. Not a warning, but a gift. Nature does not worry about categories or correctness—it simply expresses. And so might we.
What if we lived that way? What if we recognized in one another the same dazzling diversity that blooms all around us? What if we saw, not strangers or “others,” but fellow miracles—each of us a petal on the same great blossom?
The world, for all its noise and division, cannot drown out the truth: We are all connected. We are all sacred threads in the great tapestry of the Universe. The judgments of the world may rise and fall like tides, but the truth of the Divine endures. And when we remember that truth, we are no longer bound by fear, no longer trapped by the illusion of separateness.
May we walk this world fully, with open eyes and open hearts. May we live freely—not recklessly, but spiritually free. Free to love deeply. Free to laugh wildly. Free to dream boldly and hope endlessly. Free to nurture this earth and each other with tenderness.
This morning, the snowballs whispered:
Beauty remains. Wonder endures. And love is always blooming—if only we pause to see.
* * * * * * * * * *
"To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wildflower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour."
~William Blake
~Wylddane
Tucked quietly in the dappled shade, kissed by early morning light, the snowball bush had begun to bloom.
Snowballs, we always called them—my parents did, and so did I. Their real name, of course, is likely hydrangea. But in my heart, they will forever be snowballs. Full, soft clusters of petals that look for all the world like they were rolled together by some celestial child playing in a midsummer dream. This morning, the blossoms shimmered in the sunlight as if lit from within. Around them, black-eyed Susans swayed in gentle contrast—golden halos against a green sea. It was a moment so quiet, so full of grace, it nearly took my breath away.
Standing there, I felt the boundaries of time dissolve. For a few moments, there was no yesterday, no tomorrow. Only the shimmering snowballs of August and the hush of the morning. I breathed it in—this beauty, this stillness—and felt it settle into the marrow of my being.
Is it not a marvel how nature surprises us? Snowballs in August. A reminder not of winter to come, but of the endless creativity of the Universe. Not a warning, but a gift. Nature does not worry about categories or correctness—it simply expresses. And so might we.
What if we lived that way? What if we recognized in one another the same dazzling diversity that blooms all around us? What if we saw, not strangers or “others,” but fellow miracles—each of us a petal on the same great blossom?
The world, for all its noise and division, cannot drown out the truth: We are all connected. We are all sacred threads in the great tapestry of the Universe. The judgments of the world may rise and fall like tides, but the truth of the Divine endures. And when we remember that truth, we are no longer bound by fear, no longer trapped by the illusion of separateness.
May we walk this world fully, with open eyes and open hearts. May we live freely—not recklessly, but spiritually free. Free to love deeply. Free to laugh wildly. Free to dream boldly and hope endlessly. Free to nurture this earth and each other with tenderness.
This morning, the snowballs whispered:
Beauty remains. Wonder endures. And love is always blooming—if only we pause to see.
* * * * * * * * * *
"To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wildflower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour."
~William Blake
~Wylddane
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