June 6, 2020

I just experienced a peace that I haven’t known in a long time, if indeed I’ve ever known it at all. 

It came after breakfast — a simple piece of homemade bread with cheese, alongside two eggs, sunny side up, with a coffee to compliment. 

This small, somehow profoundly satisfying meal, I enjoyed from the dining table of the isolated volunteer quarters which I was graciously given by Paul and Barbara, the founders, builders, and owners of this wilderness resort, nestled by the sea in a truly magical land. I arrived here two days ago, after a two day driving journey from my home city. 

Yesterday, I helped Paul with the task of filling up a couple of hot tubs. Such a seemingly simple thing to do… and yet somehow it required a fair bit of thought and effort… more than one might think. The tubs were far enough away from the main lodge, through a stretch of forest, meaning they were relatively removed from the water source. Placing that long stretch of hoses through the trees in just the right way so it could reach the intermediary water and power source was one of those tasks that, in its apparent simplicity, managed to fill my soul with a strange and old satisfaction. I suppose its direct connection to a practical need combined with its closeness to both nature and another human being did the trick. Perhaps the formula for spiritual fulfillment is that simple. 

Once the task was done, Paul called a break for lunch, after which, he said I would have a choice: to go swimming or kayaking in the ocean, or do some lawn mowing. I chose the latter. 

I wanted to work. I wanted to be out on the land. I wanted to be helping people, and learning. The sea was tempting, but wasn’t quite what I was looking for. So, after an hour and a half of relaxing, I called on Paul and asked to be shown the lawn-mowing ropes. He was happy to oblige, and I got to work. I actually felt somewhat bad about cutting the grass like that, and destroying all the flowers that were sprouting from the earth. But I suppose one ought not fret over such things. We are human, after all, and in nature, some things will inevitably be trampled under our feet. 

After some good, hard mowing, the gas in the machine ran out, and none was present to replace it. I returned to the main lodge to find Paul and more fuel, but he was gone. So I spent some time speaking with a couple of the other volunteers, one of whom was from India, and the other, from England. Interesting combination of backgrounds, I thought, especially after the former mentioned her education in a British schooling system. History provides such a strange, rich background for interaction with the world, and other people. 

Paul returned after a little while, just as some weekend guests were beginning to arrive. After greeting them, he turned his attention to me, and waved off the request for more gas. I’d done enough for one day, he said. I appreciated his deeply humane attitude. 

Soon after returning to my quarters, I began to feel incredibly but deliciously tired. I also realized that I felt better, and more satisfied, than I’d ever felt after a day in the newsroom. Something about this kind of work is altogether psychologically and spiritually different from the work I’d done before. My soul felt sated, if only for that short moment.

The resort is filled with cabins, yurts, and domes, each of which acts as a temporary living space for folks seeking, what I presume to be, the same peace that fell over me after breakfast. 

The peace… the peace… the peace… what can I say about the peace? 

I suppose, the nature of this peace is inner silence and stillness. When the heart stops reaching… stops yearning, stops desiring, if even for a moment’s time… that, I think, is a true state of peace. And, somehow, that’s what I just experienced following breakfast.

Usually, back in the city, when I was cooking, I almost impulsively opened my laptop and turned on some noise… whether that was music, or some podcast — there always had to be some background noise. I suppose that was a manifestation of this endless yearning… something, anything to fill the hungry heart. Noise seemed to be my impulsive solution. 

But not this morning. This morning, I got up after what was close to a 12 hour, dream-filled slumber, slipped on some long-sleeve, cozy clothes, and began to prepare my meal. Coffee first, then food. As I was preparing, I felt that old impulse rise up in me: open the laptop, put on some background music. Thankfully, it didn’t last long. I resisted, with the help of the silent forest surrounding my little cabin, and the bird songs that periodically added to that serene silence. I didn’t need the noise. The peace was overpowering. 

So, I cooked. The homemade bread that was delivered to my door two evenings before smelled as sweet as ever, and the cheese, though the store packaging said it had expired a year ago, was delicious, if a bit sharp. 

I sipped my coffee, and waited for the food to be ready. Once it was, I poured the contents onto a plate, and wondered for a moment if I should go sit on the porch with the food, to enjoy it in the fresh air. That impulse, I think, was yet another manifestation of the yearning heart. The little cabin and its dining table, adorned with a green, flowery table-clothe, somehow wasn’t enough for that pesky impulse. Realizing there was no table on the porch, I submitted to eating indoors, on the corner of the table, facing the open door — some amount of nature was necessary, and I opened the nearest window to optimize. 

So, there I sat, in silence, enjoying quite a yummy little breakfast. The food didn’t last long, but the moment did. I sat there, the dirty, yolk-soaked plate in front of me, alongside a half-drunk mug of coffee. And, I just… sat. 

Usually, in the city, once the food was done, I was up right away, cleaning (or half-cleaning) the dishes, with some noise playing in the background. I was on to the next thing, the next attempt to fill my yearning heart, right away. Maybe that activity would be to half-attentively listen to some deranged political podcast, or maybe I would take some book and sit outside, trying to muster enough attention to read it. Or maybe I would try to meditate. Or maybe I would go play my guitar. Anything — anything — to satisfy that never-ending itch to do. 

But not this morning. This morning, I just sat. Thoughts would enter into my mind, but somehow they weren’t as aggressive and all-consuming as usual. They came, had their impact, and left, leaving a window of momentary peace between them. I sat there like that for a fair stretch of minutes, without even a hint of movement, eyes non-attentively resting on that open door. 

It wasn’t so long before I realized how deeply peaceful I felt, and how incredibly alien that peace was to my usual experience of breakfast, and life in general. Nothing was pulling me in any direction, at least not for the moment. All the yearnings of my heart seemed satisfied then and there, and the peace was so strong, it actually seemed to weigh upon my body, holding me in place. Movement would come eventually, but for that moment, it was some far off state of being, unknown and unwelcome. 

Of course, once I began to realize just how strangely peaceful I felt, the thought occurred that I ought to write about it. But I didn’t jerk myself up and begin the task right away, frantically grasping for the action. No… I sat there for another few moments, letting the silent peace press gently upon my soul, soothing it for just a little longer. 

Then, in that peace, with the satisfaction of that realization, and the coming positive action of writing, I reached for my laptop, and began to type. 

The fidgety feeling of a foolish second cup of coffee has hold of my body now, but the peace hasn’t altogether passed. I feel as beautiful as ever, and I thank God for it. 

The birds are singing outside, and clouds are passing overhead. 

Yes… thank God.