Taking a Moment for Peace

Things have been wild in the world lately. Good news, bad news, news of riots, of shootings, of war, and of other forms of seemingly unending violence. As a person who has chronic depression paired with anxiety, sometimes it all gets to be too much. When these things get overwhelming, I feel myself shutting down, pulling away from the world--which is why I have my dogs and my garden and my goats and all of the little things that get me away from the hustle and bustle of society. The "peace" I give myself in my sheltered patch of ground has nothing to do with the antonym "war." Rather, it has to do with the inner peace that comes from a quiet mind. The peace that allows me to find contentment with "the little things" that make up the bulk of my daily life.

When the desire to withdraw intrudes, rather than running around all day because I have to "do stuff," I give myself a few days of quiet. Of peace. Because I'm "retired," it's fairly easy to allow myself a day or two to sleep in, relax a little longer with my coffee (with Yaddle in my lap), or to lie quietly on the couch in the afternoon, reading until I feel compelled to take a nap. Over the years, I've become a lot more aware of the growing need to pull away, taking time for myself before the anxiety and/or depression makes life difficult to live. That's why I've started crocheting again and why I'll be birdwatching again, rather than spending as much time on social media. I've pretty much quit using Facebook, although I still use Messenger, and I'm restricting my time on X, as well. It's all a matter of making my limited "me" time about me, rather than having to consume my time with "stuff to do."

One small measure of "me" time takes place after supper, after Dan and I have conversed about the day, Archie has gotten his plate lickies, and I've left his house to do my evening chores. Once I've gathered the gallon cans that contained the goats' feed from the previous day from the car and put them on the cart, I go into the chicken yard to feed the hens. For just a few minutes, I sit on the molasses tub that holds their feed and do some bird listening. Not too long ago, as I sat there, several Ruby-throated Hummingbirds were feeding at the tiny red morning glory flowers that are planted around the perimeter of the yard. They chattered loudly amongst themselves as one buzzed closer to me to see if I posed a threat. Finding none, they fed for a few more minutes and flew into the increasing darkness to find their perches for the night.

I am a night owl. Daytime is a sometimes-tedious nuisance, punctuated with warm sunbeams to sleep in. But dusk is a reassuring time, calm and gentle. As I sit in the yard, the hens meander around their respective tractors, lazily making their way to their perches for the night as dusk is falling. Dan's farm is tucking itself in for the night. Quiet anticipation fills the air, stirred by the chirring of the cicadas and tree frogs, the Chuck-Will's-Widow and the Screech Owl's calls. Those stolen minutes help make that final push: onward to feeding the kennel dogs, then down to my own homestead to feed the goats, to top off the cottage dogs' water, and to wind down my day before drifting off to sleep.

Life is a cycle. Nothing is permanent. Someday, these moments will be gone, lost to the inexorable movement of time. These chickens, these goats, and even these dogs and these people will fly into the darkness. But dusk, dusk will still remain, reassuring, calm, and gentle. I'm comforted knowing that I will still regain some measure of peace from it, until nightfall.