Behind the Puddle

I think I used to imagine peace as a destination. It was somewhere we eventually arrived after everything got sorted out. The problems would be solved, the relationships would be good, and the bills would be paid. Everyone we loved would be okay, our bodies would cooperate, and the house would be caught up. The future would feel secure, nothing important would be hanging over us, and then, finally, there would be peace.

There is a small problem with this plan. Life does not appear interested in cooperating. There is always something unfinished, uncertain, or needing attention. There is someone we’re worried about, a decision we haven’t made, or a conversation we haven’t had. Something is hurting or changing.

Then something completely ridiculous breaks five minutes after we fixed something else. If peace requires everything to be okay at the same time, I may have seriously overestimated my chances. Today’s word is Peace. November’s quieter landscape has me wondering whether I’ve been looking for it in the wrong place.

Maybe peace isn’t the absence of everything difficult. Maybe sometimes it is the presence of one moment in which nothing is required of me. I have those moments behind the puddle. They aren’t entire days or even entire afternoons.

They are moments. I’m sitting in my chair, Brian is nearby, and the dogs are settled. Nothing urgent is happening. The water is still, a bird lands somewhere, and the air feels good. For a minute, my mind isn’t solving anything.

Nothing in my life has magically resolved itself. The things I worry about still exist. My body hasn’t transformed, and relationships haven’t repaired themselves. The future remains wonderfully unwilling to provide me with advance documentation.

But right there, for that minute, I’m okay. Maybe that’s peace. It isn’t permanent or complete. It is simply present. I wonder how many of those moments I’ve missed because I was waiting for a bigger version.

We tend to notice disruption. The phone rings, something hurts, someone needs us, or a problem appears. Our attention immediately goes there. Peace rarely demands attention. It doesn’t make much noise.

Peace might be a warm cup in our hands or a dog asleep against us. It might be driving somewhere familiar or hearing someone we love laughing in another room. It can be clean sheets, morning light, or five minutes before everyone wakes up. It may be a conversation where we feel understood or a familiar chair.

Maybe peace has been visiting all along. It arrived quietly, and I kept expecting a parade. I think gratitude helps us recognize it. I don’t mean the kind of gratitude that says we should ignore what is difficult because other things are good.

I don’t believe that. Something can be genuinely hard while another part of life feels peaceful. Both belong. I can be worried about tomorrow and still enjoy this cup of coffee. I can grieve someone and laugh today.

I can be frustrated with my body and comfortable in this chair. I can have a complicated relationship and still experience love elsewhere. I can be uncertain about the future and feel safe for the next five minutes. Maybe peace doesn’t require our whole life to agree on a mood.

That’s a relief because I don’t know that mine ever has. There are pieces of life I would change if I could. There are things I wish were easier, things I wish hadn’t happened, and things I still don’t know how to resolve. November isn’t asking me to pretend otherwise.

It is asking me to notice what is here. Sometimes, tucked between everything else, peace is here too. I think we can make room for it without demanding that it stay. That’s another thing I’ve learned from the puddle.

If a heron appears, I watch. I don’t spend the entire visit worrying about when it will fly away. At least, I try not to. Maybe peaceful moments deserve the same treatment.

Instead of thinking, “I wish every day could feel like this,” maybe I can simply think, “This feels good right now.” There is no demand and no attempt to preserve it. There is only recognition. This moment is peaceful, even if the rest of my life is not.

Behind the puddle, November has become quieter. The dramatic colors are mostly gone. The landscape isn’t asking me to pay attention in the way October did. I have to notice the smaller things now.

Maybe peace is one of them. It isn’t something waiting for me at the end of every problem. Sometimes it sits down beside me right in the middle of them. Perhaps my job isn’t to create it. Maybe I just need to recognize when it arrives.