"Osceola Landing Reverie" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The rhythmic thump beneath his ribs was the most ordinary sound in the world, yet Soren stopped on the sun-drenched street corner, truly hearing it for the first time. For years, the steady beat had been nothing more than background noise to his busy, often-stressed life. But the scare last week—a dizzy spell and a doctor’s quiet warning—had changed everything. Now, it was a profound, personal symphony.
He closed his eyes and placed a hand over his chest.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
He began walking again, but slower this time, matching his pace to the rhythm. With each beat, a wave of overwhelming gratitude washed over him. The air smelled faintly of rain and freshly brewed coffee—small details his hurried life usually missed.
He thought of the heart as an old companion, loyal and uncomplaining, with him through scraped knees and rebellious teenage years, through youthful heartbreaks and late-night anxieties. It asked for nothing but a little care, and in return, it powered every moment of his existence. It was the silent hero of his story, enabling every breath, every thought, every step.
Standing on the bridge overlooking the restless river below, Soren felt a lightness he hadn't known in years. He didn’t need dramatic change or sweeping resolutions. His miracle was already present—a quiet, patient promise in his chest:
I am alive. I am alive. I am alive.
The world was loud and chaotic, but his gratitude for that faithful beat was louder, a grounding truth that made this day—not perfect, not extraordinary, but simply lived—enough.
* * * * * * * * * *
And now here we are, this cold November morning, waking to our own quiet miracles.
The first definite cold of the month has settled in—today’s high expected to hover at the freezing mark. Outside the windows of the wee cottage, the world is still and gray, and yet the beauty is there for the seeing. I glance again at the photograph I took at Osceola Landing the other day, the curled and wind-burnished stalk standing against the autumn grasses and the green water of the St. Croix. What some might pass without notice becomes, with attention, a living poem. A reminder that nothing in this world is ever truly ordinary—not a riverbank, not a faded plant, not a single heartbeat.
It feels like a perfect day to make a pot of soup, to light a fire in the fireplace, to let the warmth and fragrance of both fill the rooms. To savor the comforts that are already here, waiting: a steaming mug of coffee, the quiet companionship of Shostakovich’s Piano Concerto No. 2, the sheltering walls of a home that holds gratitude like heat.
And as I sit here, listening not only to the music but to my own steady rhythm, I am reminded once again of how easily we forget the miracle of simply being alive—and how joyfully it returns the moment we remember to listen.
“Look in the mirror at least once every day, and give thanks for the heart that continues to beat and the invisible force on which those heartbeats depend.” ~Dr. Wayne Dyer
~Wylddane
He closed his eyes and placed a hand over his chest.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
He began walking again, but slower this time, matching his pace to the rhythm. With each beat, a wave of overwhelming gratitude washed over him. The air smelled faintly of rain and freshly brewed coffee—small details his hurried life usually missed.
He thought of the heart as an old companion, loyal and uncomplaining, with him through scraped knees and rebellious teenage years, through youthful heartbreaks and late-night anxieties. It asked for nothing but a little care, and in return, it powered every moment of his existence. It was the silent hero of his story, enabling every breath, every thought, every step.
Standing on the bridge overlooking the restless river below, Soren felt a lightness he hadn't known in years. He didn’t need dramatic change or sweeping resolutions. His miracle was already present—a quiet, patient promise in his chest:
I am alive. I am alive. I am alive.
The world was loud and chaotic, but his gratitude for that faithful beat was louder, a grounding truth that made this day—not perfect, not extraordinary, but simply lived—enough.
* * * * * * * * * *
And now here we are, this cold November morning, waking to our own quiet miracles.
The first definite cold of the month has settled in—today’s high expected to hover at the freezing mark. Outside the windows of the wee cottage, the world is still and gray, and yet the beauty is there for the seeing. I glance again at the photograph I took at Osceola Landing the other day, the curled and wind-burnished stalk standing against the autumn grasses and the green water of the St. Croix. What some might pass without notice becomes, with attention, a living poem. A reminder that nothing in this world is ever truly ordinary—not a riverbank, not a faded plant, not a single heartbeat.
It feels like a perfect day to make a pot of soup, to light a fire in the fireplace, to let the warmth and fragrance of both fill the rooms. To savor the comforts that are already here, waiting: a steaming mug of coffee, the quiet companionship of Shostakovich’s Piano Concerto No. 2, the sheltering walls of a home that holds gratitude like heat.
And as I sit here, listening not only to the music but to my own steady rhythm, I am reminded once again of how easily we forget the miracle of simply being alive—and how joyfully it returns the moment we remember to listen.
“Look in the mirror at least once every day, and give thanks for the heart that continues to beat and the invisible force on which those heartbeats depend.” ~Dr. Wayne Dyer
~Wylddane
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