"Wow. You don't know peace," he said, his words landing with an unexpected force. Stunned, I felt a flicker of shame, the weight of his judgment pressing against me. Without missing a beat, he reached for my hand, guiding me towards the restaurant as if nothing had happened, his words lingering between us like a distant echo.
It was September 2023, but my thoughts immediately traveled back to 2017, the first Christmas I spent alone. My then-husband and I had separated earlier that year, and I found myself in a strange, empty season. Normally, I would've spent Christmas with his family in Connecticut, but this time, I didn't want to be with mine, nor did I want to return to Texas.
Instead, I decided to build my own foundation of peace. Despite the overwhelming ache of loneliness, I was determined to cultivate calm, to create space within myself for something soft, something pure. I remember receiving a holiday card from my high school best friend, handwritten with a simple wish for peace. It felt like a small sacred gesture, a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty.
On Christmas Eve, I meditated, focusing on cultivating peace within my body. I imagined it like a wonderland: soft, fluffy, delicate, ephemeral. Peace, I realized, could be something real, something I could create despite the external chaos of my life.
The next morning, Christmas Day, I woke up in awe. Five inches of snow had blanketed my neighborhood, turning my world into a winter wonderland. My neighbor's house looked like it belonged in a Norman Rockwell painting. Still, serene, perfectly untouched by time. My heart swelled with a sense of peace that I hadn't expected.
My dog leaped joyfully through the snow, and I stepped outside to bask in the quiet beauty. And then, as if on cue, a man appeared out of nowhere. He was walking his dog down the unplowed street, muttering to himself. "This is rare you know. Snow on Christmas morning. Unbelievable."
It was as if the universe sent had sent him to quell any doubt that might have crept in. Just as I was about to question the peace I felt, his words pierced through my reverie, grounding me. He was frustrated, irritated by the snow and the inconvenience it caused, missing the magic in front of him. But in his interruption, I found reassurance. The peace I felt was real, and nothing ~ no passing momement of doubt ~ could take it away.
Fast forward to August 19, 2024, exactly 101 days before my birthday. I learned this year, my birthday would fall on the USA Thanksgiving holiday, and also coincide with the Day of Peace, the Day of the Special Fish, Un Ra Ti Ka in Lemurian Cosmology. It felt like a cosmic alignment, a reminder that peace wasn't something fleeting, but something I could ground within myself.
As my birthday approached, I could feel the foundation of peace within my body, steady and unwavering. It was as though the work that had started in 2017 had finally come full circle, manifesting not just as an idea, but as a living breathing part of me. I was no longer just seeking peace. I had rebuilt it, layer by layer, within myself.
On my birthday, I decided to infuse this peace into something tangible. I baked a dessert, carefully crafting with intention, layer by layer, the way I had built my peace over the years. I infused it with inner peace flower essences, amplifying the energy of calm and serenity that now lived within me. With every stir, every fold of the batter, I could feel peace expanding, solidifying. It was part of me, part of everything I touched.
As I finished the dessert, I smiled, realizing that peace wasn't something I needed to find or hope for anymore. It was already here, within me. A foundation I had built slowly, carefully, and with great intention. And in that moment, I knew I could carry it with me, layer by layer, wherever life took me. It could be created and shared with intention.