Cultivating Peace

Last night I walked around my city with a good friend beneath a stormy sky that broke into light rain somewhere around seven o'clock.  Whenever I spend time with her, I am reminded that peace is something we cultivate.  For whatever reason, she has been able to grow peace within herself, a garden of reflection and observation that is always in the full blown bloom of spring.  She is silly, ridiculous, and admits to having moments of humor that rival those of a particularly ornery twelve year old boy, but within all of that levity is the heart of a truly peaceful person, and I am infinitely better for having her in my corner.

I mention her because I have been seeking peace for about as long as I can remember.  Performative from a young age, I got used to being on a stage, to having people watch me, but that set me apart in ways that didn't really resonate until I got older.  I believed people would want to hear what I had to say because that had been the case for so long.  I had to learn the fine art of tact and self-editing later than almost anyone else I know, and I am still trying to get that grace thing down.

But, back to peace.  I've recently started going to church again.  I grew up singing and praying, Sundays of song and worship, fellowship and good food, but over the years I struggled as most young people do with the notion that God is somehow going to save me but condemn those around me who may not know of Him, understand Him, or call Him friend.  I spent years trying to reconcile my faith with my need to believe all people are worth saving regardless of their religious beliefs.  And then, one day, something bad happened to someone I love and the only thing that consoled me was prayer.  Asking for guidance and help from the great beyond settled my spirit.  To quote Michael Stipe: "I'm breaking through / I'm bending spoons / I'm keeping flowers in full bloom / I'm looking for answers from the great beyond."  It was this search, this need of answers that eventually led me back to church, led me back to the girl I was and to the woman I am becoming.

Last night, at my second church (the bookstore) I picked up Mary Karr's Sinners Welcome.  The Afterword, "Facing Altars: Poetry & Prayer," spoke to me in ways I probably can't accurately write about.  An excerpt I particularly like about the commonality between communion and poetry:

Poetry had consoled me in the same way, with Eucharistic qualities that [Robert] Hass had first pointed out.  In memorizing poems I loved, I "ate" them in a way.  I breathed as the poet to recite the words: Someone else's suffering and passion entered my body to change me, partly by joining me to others in a saving circle. (87)

I read it while lying on my bed with my dog, an animal for whom peace is as constant as her whimpering breath in sleep.  Watching her, paws paddling in some dream river, eyes twitching beneath soft lids, is enough to quiet my heart on most days.

It is time for my exhaustive search stop, I think.  As long as I remember to breathe, to pray, to write, to cultivate it within myself,  that peace I have sought so long may find me.  Here's hoping.