In Search of Peace and Quiet
I love a Sunday morning in bed. Preferably the weather mustn’t be too nice. A soft rain falling outside and the sky a light grey. The world turns in. The smell of coffee wafts up to my nose and draws me into a gratefulness for my life I cannot ignore. I am very lucky. The coffee competes on the night stand with the books that want to be read. My phone is dead. Turned off. The world is silent. What is happening in the world, news we call it, is temporarily arrested and not able to come into my bed or my head.
For me there is a peace and quiet in seeking out the smell of coffee and the sound of rain, rather than have my face sucked into the constantly new images, flashing by, of a world I do not inhabit. I like the feel of looking out at the same view through the window and hearing the same sounds. It brings familiarity and stops me coveting what I will never have: a house in the Maldives or a Ferrari. Not that I want these things, I must add, yet the world into which my phone draws me, tells me stories that wrench me out of the seemingly dull and static now and try and sell me a life I don’t really want.
I am not static, I am moving, even in bed. It may not be in the direction the world wants me to move. But I am moving. I am dreaming, thinking, reading, listening, being still. That’s a type of movement. Moving towards a peace that brings me comfort in a world that moving headlong towards extinction. The turning of the pages, the bitter taste of the coffee in my mouth. Experiences that quieten my mind and draw me to a place of wanting to be a better person; more kind, available, patient, curious, non-judgmental, inclusive, non-binary.
With the world “outside” and the room inside, silent, I have time to think about these things and re-commit myself to my North star. What is important to me? How can I live what I believe and stay flexible and open to all experiences, respecting people’s choices and opinions? Difficult questions. I know the answer to the former, but struggle with the latter. As I sip my coffee, I remember that I have grown used to certain things as an adult that I simply could not bear as a child. The taste of coffee and alcohol, for instance. This thought is a good reminder that I can become used to something, enjoy it, even if it may be detrimental to my health and well-being.
Searching for peace and quiet is my conscious act of rebellion, I guess, against a world I do not fully understand. I do not understand the need for the hurry and breathlessness I see around me. I would have thought that at the near age of fifty, I might have, or have got a better understanding of the world. Yet I have to admit, I seem to understand it less the longer I live. I am grateful that I am still free enough to choose peace and quiet so that i can get away from this confusion. However, I admire the energy and stamina of those who can sustain a life led at full-speed ahead with seemingly no moments of rest. I cannot do that. My soul searches for a place of rest and peace. I am grateful for this searching and rebellion. It brings me to places I would never have seen otherwise.
Places I have never actually been to. Getting lost in the words that are not mine, but whose images are. The miracle of my mind to read and picture that hillside house overlooking the rough and tumbling sea. The genius of my undistracted mind to smell the salty sea without even being near it. The joy of listening to the birds chirp ceaselessly outside a window that isn’t mine, in a place where the brook is babbling and meandering through the forest like a happy snake. My mind can find peace anywhere, anytime. It can draw into itself and daydream.
I dream a lot about how my world could be. It is bittersweet. Do you daydream? Do you place yourself in that category? A daydreamer. In my daydream world, it is a world where the world is quieter, not so much white noise. It has room for daydreamers and there are no weapons. It is a world that is grey, not black and white. Daydreaming is peaceful in my mind. It is not violent. I guess some people’s daydreams are violent. I respect that.
My daydreaming has leaked the heat out of my coffee. It is cold and more bitter than I remember. I gulp it down in one swift movement and try to balance the bitterness of its taste with the sweetness of my daydream. The sun has come streaming onto my bed, disturbing my peace and quiet with dust motes careering around the room in a frantic dance I cannot begin to fathom. The sun’s heat gently peels away the duvet and tells the message of what awaits should I decide to get up and take my daydreaming outside.
