a Sense of Peace 

A Sense of Peace

By: John Kazerooni

Once upon a time, in a picturesque village, there was a poor little girl who lived through her imagination. She danced with the wind and laughed with the birds. The whispering trees and the singing streams were her closest friends. Though she had no toys, she found playmates in the clouds and stories in the stones. She had no dresses of silk, yet in her dreams, she wore gowns woven from sunlight and petals. She owned nothing of value, yet her heart was rich—gentle, beautiful, and full of wonder.

Though she had little, her spirit shone brighter than any treasure. She noticed the smallest miracles of the world and smiled at them, her laughter chasing away the darkest shadows. Her imagination was a universe within her—boundless and radiant. She played with toys that did not exist, and in her world, every creature could speak, every flower could dance. She wore dresses spun from light and stars, in colors no fabric could hold. In her world, every beautiful dream could bloom.

Here I am. I close my eyes, and her spirit stirs the world awake.

I sit on a wide wooden bench, smooth beneath my hands, warmed by the last rays of the sun. A Persian rug lies across it, woven with crimson, sapphire, and emerald. Its patterns breathe beneath the soft evening light, curling and twisting like stories spun by hands long gone. I trace them with my eyes, and each swirl whispers a secret, as if the girl’s imagination has touched every thread.

Before me stretches a meadow bathed in golden light. The grass ripples gently, sparkling like liquid amber in the fading sun. Wildflowers—violet, amber, ivory, and rose—lean in the evening breeze, releasing a tender fragrance that mingles with the cooling air.

A slender stream winds nearby, its waters reflecting streaks of gold and rose, murmuring over smooth stones, carrying whispers from distant mountains. Those mountains rise in the distance like patient guardians, their peaks kissed by the last sunlight, their slopes painted with wildflowers glowing softly. They encircle this sanctuary, shielding it from the noise of the world, holding it in a cocoon of peace.

The air itself is alive. A gentle breeze brushes my cheek, carrying the rustle of leaves, the soft song of birds settling for the night, the hum of insects beginning their evening chorus. Every sound folds into the next, forming a symphony of nature, orchestrated by the universe itself.

All creatures move in harmony here.

The lion rests beside the sheep, golden mane brushing softness against wool. The wolf drinks beside the deer, silent, at ease. Birds glide lazily across the sky, painting arcs in the amber light. Butterflies drift between flowers, delicate as dreams. Even the tiniest creatures move without fear, their lives intertwined with the rhythm of this living world.

No hunger. No chase. No fear.

Only peace. Only balance. Only belonging.

The meadow, the water, the wind, the creatures—all breathe as one heart, and I feel it in mine, a warmth that mirrors the little girl’s joy.

I draw a slow, deep breath.

The fading sunlight warms my skin. The meadow’s music fills me, note by note, sound by sound.

For a moment, I am not just watching—I am part of it all, guided by her imagination, touched by her kindness, lifted by her laughter, exactly as the story pictured in the book.

Then my family and my dearest friends arrive. We sit together on the bench, upon the Persian rug. We watch the sunlight dance across the meadow, the mountains, and the stream, the mountains glowing softly in amber and rose, the flowers swaying gently, as if in time with our heartbeat.

I offer wine, rich and warm, its aroma drifting into the cooling breeze. We sip in silence. We hear the water’s murmur, the evening birds’ songs, the whisper of leaves. We feel the warmth of the sun fading, the gentle wind, the earth beneath us.

We taste peace. We taste imagination. We taste the quiet joy of being alive beneath an endless, dusky sky.

And here, in this place, for as long as we wish, nothing else exists but this—the meadow, the peace, the mountains, the stream, the music, the animals, the girl’s boundless imagination, and us—my family, my dearest friends.

This is my sense of peace—by closing my eyes, as the air whispers in our ears that nothing is more glorious, beautiful, and wonderful than the simple peace within our minds.

And as the last light fades, wondering thoughts linger—about the power of imagination and peace, and how perhaps, through both, the world could once again remember how to dream.

For it is from the power of our dreams that our creativity and life are born.

Click on the link https://sites.google.com/view/johnkaz to explore Tapestry of My Thoughts

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