Making my own peace

Jason was working late, on the heels of a restless night and an unusually busy morning. By mid-afternoon, I was exhausted. I set Simone up on the couch with a blanket and turned on the television. I wrapped James onto my back, paced until he fell asleep, and stood at the counter making a list of the month’s dye orders.

Suddenly, I realized that aside from the sounds of Arthur coming from the family room, the house was quiet. I took a peek. Simone was huddled into the folds of the special zoo quilt, her head on the sofa’s armrest, eyes closed. Napping. My preschooler hasn’t taken daily naps since she was a year old, and has hardly napped at all since she was two. I wasn’t about to wake her up.

I realized that I needed to start dinner: a butternut squash and caramelized onion galette from the Smitten Kitchen cookbook. I made the galette dough and prepared the squash for roasting. James woke up and I unwrapped him so he could play on the floor. He was quiet and happy while I sliced onions and put them in a pan to caramelize. The kitchen smelled of butter and cooking onions. Outside, a schoolbus stopped and children departed. I could hear their muted shouts, the soft rumble of the bus departing.

On the weekends sometimes, we stay with my husband’s parents. They live on a sizable portion of land, and it’s so quiet that when a car speeds past on the highway, we all turn our heads. On those visits, we leave our laptops behind. We sit on the couch and rest. We let my husband’s mom serve us tea and snacks. We read. We take walks around the lake. And I always wind up telling Jason that I want to move out to the country.

But it suddenly occurred to me, as I cooked dinner in a quiet house, that it wasn’t living in the country I wanted. It was peace. And I can make it myself, simply by closing the computer. The children won’t always nap, of course. I won’t always enjoy cooking dinner. But striving to be fully present? I can do that.