Finding Peace The tide is out. The river bed is drained, exhausted, clogged with mud. Steep wooded banks encase the valley in gloom all the way to the vanishing point - and likely beyond. I let my eyes wander. Am I allowed to do that now? Can I make such decisions? It seems so. They drift to the small craft lying beached and useless in the sludge, waiting impatiently for the waters that will free them. Hesitantly, guiltily, shamefully, my eyes shift again – to a fine stream, unnoticed before. It’s no more than a trickle, but it’s winding its way through the dirt of the river bed towards me. The tide must have turned. Soon the little boats will have their liberty and I try to imagine where it might take them, seemingly too cowardly for the ocean but maybe, maybe, braver than they look. And now, through tears, I see the faintest glow in the clouds above the banks, really quite beautiful, caressing and illuminating the tangled weeds of the foreshore. This landscape is strange an