Liz McGowen Blog

Is it even possible for someone with three children under the age of 10 to write about the word “peace”?

I don’t know. You be the judge.

Last week I was reading a blog — not sure which one, I’ve lost track — and the author was talking about how to incorporate peaceful moments into one’s day. It was a lovely, thoughtful piece, suggesting that everyday activities such as cleaning and cooking dinner could become opportunities for peace and meditation.

That made me scream with laughter. Seriously.

This person has never seen the Playskool crackden I live in. There is nothing meditative about having so little time for cleaning that you have to prioritize carpet stains.

Cooking is not meditative for me, either. I imagine it must be like cooking on a pirate ship that is being plundered. Little people are gonna die if I don’t get that mac-and-cheese out there PRONTO. They’re in the ‘fridge, pulling things out on their own. They’re throwing things off the shelves in the pantry. They’re collapsing, screaming, crying.

See?

Peace for me is, well, different.

Peace is not quiet. It is not meditative.

No, despite all the noise and insanity, I do feel at peace. Sometimes.

Someday it will be quiet around here and my kids will probably be texting me to find out what’s for dinner. I’ll look back and actually miss these days.

Peace, to me, is the moment within all this craziness when I can look at what’s happening and say, “yes.” It’s that satisfying moment when my little one has just learned how to move forward by herself on her bike. Or I’m clapping like mad during a concert in the living room. Or looking at that carpet stain and knowing that it happened during the creation of a particularly great piece of art. Or feeling a little hand squeeze mine.

Those are my moments of peace. I breathe. I take it in. And then I move on to what’s next.

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