Please don’t be mad at me when I say this: I’m at peace with the world.
With so much uncertainty in our near future, so much destruction burning up our planet, and devastation sweeping through its people, how in the world can I say that I am at peace? Honestly, I don’t know how I got here—to peace. I’ve double-checked to see if I’m feeling numb. I’m not. I’m only medicated with red clover infusions, herbal teas, a ton of time in nature and a little coffee, so that can’t be it either. I haven’t come into a swelling tide of money and still bank on faith from time to time—so my peace wasn’t bought. I haven’t turned my eyes away from the catastrophes or the absurdities of political “leaders.” I’m still witnessing. I see how the empire is implementing psychological warfare on us, whiplashing us with the headlines. My peace also dwells in my level-head. I’m still plugged in, still crying for our pain, and our growing breathtakingly beautiful expansion. So what is it that has me feeling so peaceful?
I’m pretty sure it’s death.
When death is around me, it takes control. I can sometimes shape the environment it happens in, but I know that someday death may take even that away. I can’t control death. I can’t control how it clears the field. I can’t control its timing or its pace. I can’t control the measure of its graces or the weight of its blows. Death is the driver; I am relegated to the passenger seat. What I can control is how I feel inside myself.
I surrender to death. That was lesson one in How to Be a Death Midwife. Be fully present with dying people long enough, and one learns the value of rigidity—or surrender.
When the future feels uncertain, the present moment comes into clear focus. When my eyes try to piece together what the future looks like, I lose sight of what’s in front of me. And what is fortunately in front of me? As I write this, there’s a rising sun breaking through thick mist, my dog curled up against my hip, the ticking of the radiators, and my coffee. I’ve also got quiet thoughts about how I’ll spend my day—a good walk, some time with my watercolors. And wrapped around these present moments is an unpublished hymn of prayer in my heart for those who are in the severities of life and death.
I’ll be there someday too. It’s only a matter of divine timing. Maybe there will be a hymn.
In this peace I feel are the tears and cries of millions who are suffering. Peace is not the absence of empathy, grief, or action—oftentimes, it’s the steadfastness beneath those things. Grief and peace can coexist. Feeling peace does not mean giving up or turning away; it provides a clarity that, most days, empowers my actions and my purpose.
Inner-peace in the face of death and devastation, uncertainty and massive changes, is a plan. It’s an option. It’s a rebellion and resistance. It’s essential for those who are called to serve, uplift, and help.
