The Quiet Sanctuary of Swampy Bottom Acres

There is a gentle power in the quiet places we call our own. Peace, so often sought in distant lands or through complicated means, is sometimes waiting beneath our very feet—woven into the soil, the sound of the rain on the tin roof, the whispers of the wind as it threads through the moss draped trees. For me, peace is found here, at my place, in the embrace of the land, in the unhurried rhythms of nature.

Peace is found for me in the language of the land, one spoken not with words but with seasons and sensations. Here, the mornings begin with the soft calling of birds, their notes rising before the first light spills across the horizon. The air, either cool or thick and humid, dependent on the season, carries with it the promise of a new day. I find peace in the way the dew glistens on the leaves of the trees as sunrise dawns, in the deliberate hush that settles in just before dawn, and again at sunset.

The land is both a canvas and a storyteller. Each path I walk through the acres holds sights that whisper to my soul. Standing barefoot on the earth, I feel anchored to something larger than myself—rooted, as the oaks and pines that embrace the perimeter of this place, My Swampy Bottom Acres… it is here, at the end of a dead-end dirt road that I find peace.

There is a particular peace in belonging—a comfort that comes from knowing the lay of the land, every inch of it tread upon and respected. The old oak trees around the place I call home are confident and strong. Their outstretched limbs have offered shade on hot afternoons and a place to lean into reflection. They are home to creatures that are familiar to me, that scurry about, crawl, climb, fly through, and raise families there.

In the time between tasks, I wander over the acres, taking in the wildflowers whose colors dot the greenness that is prevalent here in the swamp. These moments, ordinary but precious, are reminders that peace is not always an escape or a destination. Sometimes, it is an act of noticing, being present enough to witness the miracles woven into everyday life.

There are days when the weight of the world presses in, when anxieties crowd the mind and peace seems distant. On such days, I seek solace in the wild places just beyond my door. The land responds with open arms. The woods, dense and fragrant with pine, and wild vines and shrubs swallow up my worries.

As I walk the worn trail among the trees, I come to the pond, and watch the fish dart about at its edges, see them jump at times, anwatch as the dragonflies touch the water and fly about as if dancing to an unheard symphony. Here, the troubles of the world lose their urgency. Nature, in its endless patience, teaches me to let go, to trust the unfolding of things. I feel my heart quiet, matching its beat to the pulse of the earth.

There is peace, too, in the act of caring for my place. The work of hands on the earth—mowing, weeding, turning compost, mending fences, gathering wild dewberries and scuppernongs.  All this grounds me in the present moment. These tasks, humble and repetitive, are meditations in motion. They remind me that not all peace is passive; sometimes, it is built with sweat and patience, with the willingness to nurture and be nurtured.

In caring for the land, I come to care for myself. I learn to recognize the signs of exhaustion and renewal, both on the acres and in my heart. The land does not judge or hurry; it accepts my offerings, my efforts, my quiet gratitude. It is where I renew, where I breathe easier, where I feel God’s presence and hear His voice as well. Here, in my place, amidst the enduring grace of the land and the gentle wisdom of nature, I find my peace—not as a fleeting escape, but as an enduring gift. In every season, in every breath, it waits for me to notice, to receive, and to belong…. My Peace is here, in my home….