Originally printed in the Nov/Dec issue of Down Country Roads Magazine

The coffee percolator perks to life in the sleeping house. A little ribbon of red streaks the eastern horizon, and a handful of scattered stars gleam coldly in the pale, colorless sky, above the leafless trees. There are gentle sounds of waking, throughout the house and from the yard. A horse whinnying as the geldings come in for their breakfast. The first call from the roosters down in the chickencoop. Distant yipping from a pack of coyotes, and sleepy howls from the black-and-whites, not quite ready to get up.

Fingers wrap tight around steaming cups of coffee while the waking sun, reluctant to rise, comes to grip with the morning at hand. We sip a little slower, savoring the slowness. And in that lingering a little longer over the ritual of coffee, waiting for first light and the day to begin, there is peace. Quiet. Tranquility. Watching as the sky gradually brightens and lightens and the day begins.

In those first frosty mornings of the early winter when every breath is a cloud of white, in those last showers of golden-brown leaves, late to fall and carpeting underfoot, in the first skim of ice on the watertanks, or the first snow, there is peace, a hush and a feeling of reverence and bursting joy, as those first warming rays of daylight stream across the silvered or snowed-over landscape. Winter is on its way. Winter is here.

With the happy chaos of autumn behind us, with the fall calf crop weaned and sold, with heavy cows out to pasture and the garden put to bed, there settles in another sort of peace, and I guard it jealously. It is the peace of belonging, of nostalgic remembrances, of the past colliding with the present. A different kind of peace. I guard it, in customs my husband and I have built, for the two of us and our growing family, in the simple Thanksgiving gatherings and the quiet search for the perfect Christmas tree, in the songs and carols, the Advent observances, and the handful of choice festivities that punctuate this season with rejoicing. I guard it, in the traditions passed down generation to generation, in the worn recipe cards and the tastes and smells of the season. We turn for sweet refuge to the familiar, cherishing the dear faces gathered close around the feast-day tables, family and friends dear as family, hearing the beloved voices mingle together in their tale-telling and laughter. There is peace. Sweet peace.

The setting sun, earlier and swifter, sinks below the ridge behind our house, sinking into the pines as the sky above flames red, lighting for one intense and rosy moment the Badlands and Sheep Mountain Table miles and miles away to the east. The settling chill, first harbinger of true winter, bites a little. The shorter days and the crisper evenings chase us inside sooner, and we flee to the warmth and golden light, to the peace of comfort, a hot meal, and love of family, and the pastimes that sweeten the long winter evenings. And as the day draws to a close, in peace we lay our heads down. 

A midnight wakeup and a gaze at the winter sky fills the mind with wonder – Crisp and cold, the inky sky above dazzles with a million stars, brighter than they ever are in the spring and summer, when the slightest haze dulls their brilliance. They are reflected back in glittering frost. What splendor, and only for those awake when everyone else is asleep. And in that awestruck gaze, there is room for peace, the peace of beholding brilliance and knowing to Whom the wonder is due, and from Whom the peace comes.

And in the hush of midnight, or the wee hours of snowy morning, there is the peace of safety and security, in the slow breathing of spouse nearby, the sleepy whimper of a dog dreaming a good dream, and soft infant sounds of needs met and sleep embraced.

In that hush, there is room for peace.