"October - Upper St. Croix River" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productios, LLC)
It is a dark, chilly morning. Fog presses against the windows of the wee cottage, soft and heavy, wrapping the world outside in a hushed stillness. The street lamps glow like quiet lanterns, their halos shifting and dissolving in the drifting mist. Inside, the warmth of the room holds me close. A mug of coffee steams at my side, its taste both sharp and comforting, while the haunting, solitary notes of Portrait of Garatea play like a soliloquy—an inward song for the heart.
As this day begins, my mind drifts backward. I see myself at five, six, and seven years old—costumed for Halloween, running wild through the neighborhood streets with friends. There were no parents hovering behind us; they simply let us go, confident we’d find our way back. We would race from house to house, bags filling with candy, laughter bubbling in the night air. At home, we’d feast until our stomachs ached, joy outweighing the sugar. Happy memories, simple and full.
Other memories nudge closer too—me with two dear friends, young adults then, deciding on a whim to venture out to the Castro on Halloween. Costumes thrown together, laughter echoing into the night, joy blooming in improvisation. How vivid it still feels, that rush of youth and freedom.
Memories are the fabric of our lives. They weave themselves into who we are this very morning. And they are not unlike a river.
A river flows endlessly toward the sea, its waters never the same from one moment to the next. We cannot step twice into the same river, for new water is always passing by. So it is with memory. Each time we recall an event, it shifts slightly, like light on rippling water. Recent memories are crystal clear, glittering at the surface. Older ones lie deeper, softened and shadowed, waiting for us to wade down and bring them up again.
A river is shaped by tributaries, by other waters that merge into it, altering its course. So too are we shaped by our experiences, each one flowing into another until they become inseparable. Memory, like a river, is alive. It reshapes us as it flows through us.
And so, this morning, I stand at the riverbank of my own memories. Looking upstream, I see the bright fabric of the life I have lived. Looking downstream, I can only wonder at the bends and rapids yet unseen. But here, where I stand now—in this moment, with coffee in hand, fog pressing at the windows, and music holding my thoughts gently—I realize something: this moment itself is precious. It is the river, flowing beneath my feet.
I cannot hold it, nor can I shape it fully. I can only live it, knowing that what I create here and now will weave itself into tomorrow’s memory, into the river’s eternal journey.
Perhaps the question for today is not what memories will come, but how gently, how gratefully, I will let them flow.
Maybe it is time for another sip of coffee.
“We do not remember days, we remember moments.” ~Cesare Pavese
~Wylddane
As this day begins, my mind drifts backward. I see myself at five, six, and seven years old—costumed for Halloween, running wild through the neighborhood streets with friends. There were no parents hovering behind us; they simply let us go, confident we’d find our way back. We would race from house to house, bags filling with candy, laughter bubbling in the night air. At home, we’d feast until our stomachs ached, joy outweighing the sugar. Happy memories, simple and full.
Other memories nudge closer too—me with two dear friends, young adults then, deciding on a whim to venture out to the Castro on Halloween. Costumes thrown together, laughter echoing into the night, joy blooming in improvisation. How vivid it still feels, that rush of youth and freedom.
Memories are the fabric of our lives. They weave themselves into who we are this very morning. And they are not unlike a river.
A river flows endlessly toward the sea, its waters never the same from one moment to the next. We cannot step twice into the same river, for new water is always passing by. So it is with memory. Each time we recall an event, it shifts slightly, like light on rippling water. Recent memories are crystal clear, glittering at the surface. Older ones lie deeper, softened and shadowed, waiting for us to wade down and bring them up again.
A river is shaped by tributaries, by other waters that merge into it, altering its course. So too are we shaped by our experiences, each one flowing into another until they become inseparable. Memory, like a river, is alive. It reshapes us as it flows through us.
And so, this morning, I stand at the riverbank of my own memories. Looking upstream, I see the bright fabric of the life I have lived. Looking downstream, I can only wonder at the bends and rapids yet unseen. But here, where I stand now—in this moment, with coffee in hand, fog pressing at the windows, and music holding my thoughts gently—I realize something: this moment itself is precious. It is the river, flowing beneath my feet.
I cannot hold it, nor can I shape it fully. I can only live it, knowing that what I create here and now will weave itself into tomorrow’s memory, into the river’s eternal journey.
Perhaps the question for today is not what memories will come, but how gently, how gratefully, I will let them flow.
Maybe it is time for another sip of coffee.
“We do not remember days, we remember moments.” ~Cesare Pavese
~Wylddane
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