(Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
"Realize deeply that the present moment is all you ever have."
~Thich Nhat Hanh
The heat has finally loosened its grip—at least for a little while.
By this afternoon, the humidity will almost certainly return, wrapping itself around the wee cottage and settling over the northwoods like a heavy quilt. But this morning belongs to gentleness.
The glass door stands open to welcome the cool air. A neighborhood cat has claimed a sunny corner of the deck as its own and sleeps without the slightest concern for the passage of time. Somewhere beyond the birdbath, a Jenny wren offers her bright little song to the morning. Classical music drifts softly through the cottage while the aroma of fresh coffee rises from the mug warming my hands.
I pause.
I lift the mug in a silent salute to another new day.
How precious this morning is.
Perhaps I notice that more now than I once did.
Not long ago, a dear friend died after a courageous battle with a rare form of cancer. I miss her more than words can easily express. Often my thoughts wander to her life partner, and I wonder how he is navigating the immense quiet that grief leaves behind.
Loss has a curious way of changing us.
It does not simply teach us that life ends.
It teaches us that life is happening—right now.
As another birthday approaches, I realize I will soon be the same age at which several members of my immediate family left this world. It is impossible not to notice that fact. Sometimes the awareness quietly slips into the back of my mind.
Will my own journey end suddenly?
Will it unfold slowly?
None of us knows.
And strangely, I no longer feel compelled to know.
Awareness is different from fear.
One invites anxiety.
The other invites gratitude.
I do not spend my days dwelling on mortality. Instead, I find myself dwelling on mornings like this one.
This cup of coffee.
The sleepy cat on the deck.
The music.
The cool breeze drifting through the open door.
The rose begonia blooming with such extravagant beauty at the front of the cottage, offering everything it has without asking how many summers remain.
Perhaps that is one of nature's quiet lessons.
Flowers do not bloom because tomorrow is guaranteed.
They bloom because today has arrived.
Many religions promise another life beyond this one. Perhaps they are right.
Perhaps they are not.
I honestly do not know.
But I find myself wondering if heaven begins long before death.
Maybe heaven begins the moment we truly notice where we already are.
Maybe it is this right now.
This breath.
This song of the Jenny wren.
This warmth of coffee in my hands.
This extraordinary privilege of simply being alive.
Recently I came across words that have stayed with me:
Healing is strange. You spend years learning how to survive, and then one day you must learn how to live again.
How true that is.
Life wounds us all eventually. We experience disappointment, heartbreak, illness, loss, betrayal, and grief.
Little by little we become experts at protecting ourselves.
Yet healing asks something entirely different of us.
It asks us to believe that not every chapter ends in sorrow.
That there are still kind people.
There are still beautiful mornings.
There is still joy waiting quietly to find us.
Perhaps the hardest part of healing is not releasing what has been.
Perhaps it is trusting that life still has something beautiful to offer.
That we are worthy of receiving it.
Those thoughts remind me of something Wayne Dyer once wrote:
"Life presents itself to you and asks nothing of you. You can take life and swim deliriously through it, or you can fight it. But when you elect to spend your time fighting it, you can't use the same time to enjoy it."
I think there is wisdom there.
Life has never promised certainty.
It has never promised fairness.
It has never promised tomorrow.
But it offers us this morning.
And perhaps that is enough.
So I begin another day.
I sip my coffee.
I raise my mug in quiet gratitude.
I listen to the Jenny wren singing.
I listen to the music filling the cottage.
I listen to the gentle silence between the notes.
I listen to this moment.
And for today--
that is more than enough.
~Wylddane
~Thich Nhat Hanh
The heat has finally loosened its grip—at least for a little while.
By this afternoon, the humidity will almost certainly return, wrapping itself around the wee cottage and settling over the northwoods like a heavy quilt. But this morning belongs to gentleness.
The glass door stands open to welcome the cool air. A neighborhood cat has claimed a sunny corner of the deck as its own and sleeps without the slightest concern for the passage of time. Somewhere beyond the birdbath, a Jenny wren offers her bright little song to the morning. Classical music drifts softly through the cottage while the aroma of fresh coffee rises from the mug warming my hands.
I pause.
I lift the mug in a silent salute to another new day.
How precious this morning is.
Perhaps I notice that more now than I once did.
Not long ago, a dear friend died after a courageous battle with a rare form of cancer. I miss her more than words can easily express. Often my thoughts wander to her life partner, and I wonder how he is navigating the immense quiet that grief leaves behind.
Loss has a curious way of changing us.
It does not simply teach us that life ends.
It teaches us that life is happening—right now.
As another birthday approaches, I realize I will soon be the same age at which several members of my immediate family left this world. It is impossible not to notice that fact. Sometimes the awareness quietly slips into the back of my mind.
Will my own journey end suddenly?
Will it unfold slowly?
None of us knows.
And strangely, I no longer feel compelled to know.
Awareness is different from fear.
One invites anxiety.
The other invites gratitude.
I do not spend my days dwelling on mortality. Instead, I find myself dwelling on mornings like this one.
This cup of coffee.
The sleepy cat on the deck.
The music.
The cool breeze drifting through the open door.
The rose begonia blooming with such extravagant beauty at the front of the cottage, offering everything it has without asking how many summers remain.
Perhaps that is one of nature's quiet lessons.
Flowers do not bloom because tomorrow is guaranteed.
They bloom because today has arrived.
Many religions promise another life beyond this one. Perhaps they are right.
Perhaps they are not.
I honestly do not know.
But I find myself wondering if heaven begins long before death.
Maybe heaven begins the moment we truly notice where we already are.
Maybe it is this right now.
This breath.
This song of the Jenny wren.
This warmth of coffee in my hands.
This extraordinary privilege of simply being alive.
Recently I came across words that have stayed with me:
Healing is strange. You spend years learning how to survive, and then one day you must learn how to live again.
How true that is.
Life wounds us all eventually. We experience disappointment, heartbreak, illness, loss, betrayal, and grief.
Little by little we become experts at protecting ourselves.
Yet healing asks something entirely different of us.
It asks us to believe that not every chapter ends in sorrow.
That there are still kind people.
There are still beautiful mornings.
There is still joy waiting quietly to find us.
Perhaps the hardest part of healing is not releasing what has been.
Perhaps it is trusting that life still has something beautiful to offer.
That we are worthy of receiving it.
Those thoughts remind me of something Wayne Dyer once wrote:
"Life presents itself to you and asks nothing of you. You can take life and swim deliriously through it, or you can fight it. But when you elect to spend your time fighting it, you can't use the same time to enjoy it."
I think there is wisdom there.
Life has never promised certainty.
It has never promised fairness.
It has never promised tomorrow.
But it offers us this morning.
And perhaps that is enough.
So I begin another day.
I sip my coffee.
I raise my mug in quiet gratitude.
I listen to the Jenny wren singing.
I listen to the music filling the cottage.
I listen to the gentle silence between the notes.
I listen to this moment.
And for today--
that is more than enough.
~Wylddane
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