Long ago I wrote “On the days that I can’t create something beautiful, at least let me have the wisdom to see it.” I suppose the same goes for peace. 

She’s the first thing I see each morning. I sit on the side of the table that faces her. In the painting, she sits behind her easeled art, within her book, and all is calm. I know this place. Whenever anxious, they are my two safety zones — holding the brush, or cradling the words. The bang of my heart quiets to a whispered beat, and I am saved.

It’s why I like the French words for not worried — it translates to pas inquiet (Inquiet means un quiet, or disquiet, a lack of peace.) So to be “pas inquiet” is to not be worried, to sit in this glorious peace. 

Before I had the words, I had the tools. And on the days when I find myself in the chaos, I do have the wisdom, or at least the opportunity, the reminder, to see it — the place where my heart can rest and my mind can wander. 

But it does deserve attention. It needs to be fed. Acknowledged. Yesterday, after baking the bread, we rode the waft of its scent to the vineyard that produces our favorite olive oil. It bears the taste of olive and earth, so pure, that when poured on the grains of the bread, placed on the back of the tongue, your eyes can only give way to the wave and roll to the back of your brain, the threshold, the most quiet place where gratitude lives, where worry cannot find its way.

And so I, we, begin the day, without a bang, in the beauty of this glorious peace.