"Rhododendron Wisdom" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“Do not regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many. And like the rhododendron, the deepest roots often produce the most beautiful blooms.”
The coffee tastes good this morning.
Outside the windows of the wee cottage, the northwoods are awake with birdsong. The garden beds are bright with color. A gentle chorus of finches, sparrows, and orioles drifts through the air while classical music wanders softly from room to room. Beyond the glass, the rising sun has painted the clouds in shades of pink and orange, as if dawn itself paused to create a watercolor before beginning the day.
I take another sip of coffee and watch the morning unfold.
Yet beneath the beauty, my thoughts are heavier today.
Perhaps it is because growing older has a way of changing the questions we ask. When we are young, we wonder what lies ahead. As the years pass, we sometimes find ourselves looking behind as often as we look forward. We carry memories, disappointments, regrets, joys, losses, and the occasional ache of realizing that some things did not turn out quite the way we hoped they would.
There are mornings when the weight of that knowing settles quietly beside us.
This is one of those mornings.
And yet, sitting here, I find my eyes drawn to the rhododendron.
Its blossoms seem almost impossible—creamy white petals touched with gold, glowing in the morning light. Their beauty appears effortless, but I know better.
The rhododendron did not become magnificent overnight.
It spent years becoming what it is.
Year after year it sent roots deeper into the earth. Through scorching summers and bitter winters, through storms and droughts, through seasons when no flowers appeared at all, it continued its slow, patient work.
When winter came, it protected itself. Its leaves curled inward against the cold, preserving life until warmer days returned.
There is wisdom in that.
As we grow older, perhaps our task is not so different.
There are seasons when we must open ourselves fully to life and seasons when we must protect what is precious within us. There are times to bloom and times simply to endure.
The world often celebrates youth because it is visible and dramatic. But age possesses a quieter beauty. It is found in roots rather than branches. It lives in understanding rather than certainty. It reveals itself in resilience rather than speed.
The rhododendron reminds me that life is not diminished by age.
It is deepened by it.
Its gnarled branches do not lessen the splendor of its blossoms. In many ways, they make the blossoms possible.
Perhaps the same is true of us.
The wrinkles, scars, disappointments, and losses we carry are not evidence that life has passed us by. They are evidence that we have lived.
And because we have lived, we are still capable of blooming.
That thought brings me to another realization.
There are times when I look at my life and see troubling conditions or unwelcome circumstances. There are moments when resignation whispers that things are simply the way they are and cannot be changed.
Yet whenever I begin to believe that, I have forgotten something important.
I have forgotten that imagination is not merely fantasy.
It is creation's first step.
The future is always born in the unseen before it arrives in the seen.
If I use my imagination to rehearse worry, fear, and disappointment, I invite those shadows into my experience. But if I use that same sacred power to envision peace, joy, friendship, purpose, healing, and possibility, I am planting entirely different seeds.
The rhododendron understands this better than we do.
Every spring it behaves as though winter never had the final word.
Every spring it believes in blossoms before blossoms appear.
Every spring it trusts the life hidden within itself.
And every spring it is rewarded.
Perhaps growing older is not about surrendering our dreams.
Perhaps it is about choosing better dreams.
Not dreams of becoming someone else.
Not dreams of reliving yesterday.
But dreams of becoming fully who we are today.
The years have taught us much. They have shown us what matters and what does not. They have revealed the preciousness of ordinary mornings, good coffee, birdsong, friendship, beauty, and love.
The years have also taught us something else:
This day is still ours.
This morning is still ours.
This moment is still ours.
And within this moment lives the same creative power that has always lived within us.
Outside, the rhododendron glows in the sunlight.
The birds continue their songs.
The clouds drift slowly across the brightening sky.
The music plays softly.
And I sit quietly with my coffee, grateful for another day, reminded that while youth may pass, growth never does.
Like the rhododendron, we are still becoming.
Still rooting.
Still blooming.
Still capable of surprising ourselves with beauty.
I take another sip of coffee.
And this day, this precious gift, has begun.
~Wylddane
The coffee tastes good this morning.
Outside the windows of the wee cottage, the northwoods are awake with birdsong. The garden beds are bright with color. A gentle chorus of finches, sparrows, and orioles drifts through the air while classical music wanders softly from room to room. Beyond the glass, the rising sun has painted the clouds in shades of pink and orange, as if dawn itself paused to create a watercolor before beginning the day.
I take another sip of coffee and watch the morning unfold.
Yet beneath the beauty, my thoughts are heavier today.
Perhaps it is because growing older has a way of changing the questions we ask. When we are young, we wonder what lies ahead. As the years pass, we sometimes find ourselves looking behind as often as we look forward. We carry memories, disappointments, regrets, joys, losses, and the occasional ache of realizing that some things did not turn out quite the way we hoped they would.
There are mornings when the weight of that knowing settles quietly beside us.
This is one of those mornings.
And yet, sitting here, I find my eyes drawn to the rhododendron.
Its blossoms seem almost impossible—creamy white petals touched with gold, glowing in the morning light. Their beauty appears effortless, but I know better.
The rhododendron did not become magnificent overnight.
It spent years becoming what it is.
Year after year it sent roots deeper into the earth. Through scorching summers and bitter winters, through storms and droughts, through seasons when no flowers appeared at all, it continued its slow, patient work.
When winter came, it protected itself. Its leaves curled inward against the cold, preserving life until warmer days returned.
There is wisdom in that.
As we grow older, perhaps our task is not so different.
There are seasons when we must open ourselves fully to life and seasons when we must protect what is precious within us. There are times to bloom and times simply to endure.
The world often celebrates youth because it is visible and dramatic. But age possesses a quieter beauty. It is found in roots rather than branches. It lives in understanding rather than certainty. It reveals itself in resilience rather than speed.
The rhododendron reminds me that life is not diminished by age.
It is deepened by it.
Its gnarled branches do not lessen the splendor of its blossoms. In many ways, they make the blossoms possible.
Perhaps the same is true of us.
The wrinkles, scars, disappointments, and losses we carry are not evidence that life has passed us by. They are evidence that we have lived.
And because we have lived, we are still capable of blooming.
That thought brings me to another realization.
There are times when I look at my life and see troubling conditions or unwelcome circumstances. There are moments when resignation whispers that things are simply the way they are and cannot be changed.
Yet whenever I begin to believe that, I have forgotten something important.
I have forgotten that imagination is not merely fantasy.
It is creation's first step.
The future is always born in the unseen before it arrives in the seen.
If I use my imagination to rehearse worry, fear, and disappointment, I invite those shadows into my experience. But if I use that same sacred power to envision peace, joy, friendship, purpose, healing, and possibility, I am planting entirely different seeds.
The rhododendron understands this better than we do.
Every spring it behaves as though winter never had the final word.
Every spring it believes in blossoms before blossoms appear.
Every spring it trusts the life hidden within itself.
And every spring it is rewarded.
Perhaps growing older is not about surrendering our dreams.
Perhaps it is about choosing better dreams.
Not dreams of becoming someone else.
Not dreams of reliving yesterday.
But dreams of becoming fully who we are today.
The years have taught us much. They have shown us what matters and what does not. They have revealed the preciousness of ordinary mornings, good coffee, birdsong, friendship, beauty, and love.
The years have also taught us something else:
This day is still ours.
This morning is still ours.
This moment is still ours.
And within this moment lives the same creative power that has always lived within us.
Outside, the rhododendron glows in the sunlight.
The birds continue their songs.
The clouds drift slowly across the brightening sky.
The music plays softly.
And I sit quietly with my coffee, grateful for another day, reminded that while youth may pass, growth never does.
Like the rhododendron, we are still becoming.
Still rooting.
Still blooming.
Still capable of surprising ourselves with beauty.
I take another sip of coffee.
And this day, this precious gift, has begun.
~Wylddane
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