They have been walking for so long,
the snow crunches underfoot,
rain rolls down their beautiful faces,
and the hard land offers its resistance.

And yet, between their fingers,
a flower rests,
a tiny flame,
a fragile spark suspended
amidst the bite of the world.

Their hands could stiffen,
scream in the burning cold,
but they remain open and delicate,
as if cradling life,
holding between their palms a scent of infinity.

Each petal trembles,
each stem bends,
and nothing withers.

In this silent quivering,
nameless beauty rises:
the flower becomes presence,
a joyful treasure in the palm of their hands,
which flies away in flowery sparks.

Fatigue threatens to bend them,
the path to hold them back,
but they move forward,
the flower floating like a tender banner,
like a motionless secret,
like a balm of prayer,
like an open heart in the storm.

In the blades of winter,
their hands bow to her,
and only gentle traces remain on the asphalt.

Like a prayer scented with hope
for all the flowers of tomorrow,
proof that beauty endures,
that peace transforms shadow into light.

And in the insolence of the wind,
with each land they cross,
a flower is born in the palm of their hands,
stretched out towards the universe as an offering,

shining eternity in its petals,

as if the stars were reflected in them.

~Marie Gutierrez

how can I choose peace?

inquiry for today~ remember who you are….

how we perceive each other…

What people were responding to wasn’t an idea about peace.

It was the presence of peace right there, everywhere around me.

The monks didn’t need to speak.

Their regulated, grounded presence communicated the safety that accompanies peace,

and it emanated through the crowd.

This is why the crowds have grown as the monks continue their walk.

People aren’t coming to be inspired.

They’re coming to experience something most of us rarely feel in daily life:

embodied, felt peace.

And once felt, even briefly,

peace is recognized, remembered,

and allowed to come home.

~Patricia Heitz