The world groans and I am weary under the weight of it. We are in the “in between”: the place of uncertainty where distraction tries to take us from our better work.
I stand in my kitchen and look out the window, over the top of a new top-down-bottom-up blind, at a treed hilltop I’ve paid little attention to until now. I lift my eyes up at the start of a new day and am reminded where my help comes from.
I turn, and the vase of quiet roses and large, loud lilies on my dining table catches my attention. I think of my mom every time I catch a whiff of those lilies. They were too funereal for her taste. I find charm in them—especially paired, as they are, with stoic pink roses.
These things ground me.
Earlier, I lay awake long before daybreak in conversation with the Divine and come to a measure of understanding. Peace.
And the variegated green of the hills and the bright white of the lilies, the succulents on my windowsill, the tiny white petunias in my Aerogarden; these, and the Keurig coughing and the soy milk warming and and a tiny ceramic dog who has guarded my kitchen windowsill all my adult life and the silence of a household still sleeping. And peace.
I pad to the living room and stand at a window that curtains never cover and there see a sky that for all the world looks like ripples on a calm and quiet lake. And creation greets the day. And if the rocks and the hills can’t keep silent, how can I?
And I am grounded by the tangible and the imperceptible and in the holy hush of morning, there is only peace.