Where Peace Lives

There's a place, I know, a place where peace lives. There are many, really.

Peace lives in the whispering branches of the forest that keep everyone's secrets. Where the wind is ruthless, numbing your innocent ears and nose. Where the snow softens every footfall, or where it welcomes every stride of your ski. Where the leaves crunch underneath your bike's tires, or your sneakers. 

Peace lives in the water, too. It has long laced itself into the current of rivers and the salt of the ocean, so that when you dive under, it feels like coming home. Where anything that hits the water is softened underneath it, leaving only a calming ripple. Where any tears are washed away and any anger is cooled.

Peace lives in books, in stories. It tucks itself away with the words, and it is the good smell that inhabits all bookshops and libraries. It smells like old pages and ink, it sounds like words that your grandparents tell you about when they were kids.

Peace lives in the stillness of the woods, the busyness of the water, the magic-ness of stories, and in so many other nooks of the world. Look for it, and you will find it.