Winding My Way Toward Peace
by Elizabeth Wickland
The Valley of Flowers, by Elizabeth Wickland, watercolor on cold press cotton paper, 18×24 inches
THE VALLEY OF FLOWERS
According to legend in this place I call home, two indigenous tribes gathered for battle in a wide space between the mountains. Their fierce conflict raged on for one day, and then two, with no end in sight. On the third day, darkness covered the land and sky, blotting out the sun, as a single white flame descended in song and came to rest on the mountain now called Bridger. In a language none of the warriors knew, but they all understood, this singing light said, “Children of the Great Spirit, put away your hatchets, dismantle your bows. Do not shed your brothers’ blood here, lest it run into the water and taint the Valley of Flowers below. There must be no war in the Valley of Flowers, but all must be at peace, rest, and love. The Spirit Maiden has spoken the words of the Great Spirit.” In the place she was seen, Maiden Rock now stands, and peace rests in this place thereafter known by inhabitants as The Valley of Flowers.
This painting is of the Bridger Mountains, at the edge of the Gallatin Valley, as seen from my home in Bozeman, Montana. These are the mountains I see in the morning, that greet me at day’s end, that invite me to sow peace in this place. In a world with so much division, so much conflict, so many religious “languages” spoken, there is One whose light shines, whose Word is heard, and whose peace and rest and love is a strong foundation, even firmer than what lies beneath these mountains. Home is to gather where the battle would be, sowing the flowers of Eden, planting the seeds of peace, finding flourishing in the Valley of Flowers, trusting that the Spirit of Pentecost is breathing life into places of death, even here, even now.
WINDING MY WAY TOWARD PEACE
I cannot wind my way toward peace
without treading on stories
belonging to those to whom
it was denied.
Ninety-nine miles of serpentine silence,
no one to call, nowhere to turn.
Are these the hills my help comes from?
How many were held here
without fences, the mountains
tower enough to hold captive, offer
no escape—even the road I'm on
they made, the path to peace built
on anything but.
If I stay on this road, sneaking beyond
the camp through the fraction of land
unstolen, if I keep driving—
do not turn toward peace—
I will find myself at hell's gate, swallowed
by the snake that slithers down, down,
down toward the devils who devour.
I turn, following the footsteps of those
whose names echo in the hearts
of my neighbors' children,
who battle only to buy time
for the safety of others. Brave
is always on behalf of the broken—
broken open the way seeds
are grown, planted by those
who will fight no more forever.
There is only one way,
but it winds and it winds and it
winds until I am knotted with sorrow
for the ways that we take and we take
and we take—like the seven devils
took us into possession, captive
in a place we called home.
St. Gertrude knew something
of being displaced, and I sit with her
blue porphyry stones, eyes fixed
on the hills, seeing only
to the heart of the wounded one,
who is consolation
and peace.
ELIZABETH WICKLAND
Elizabeth Wickland lives in Bozeman, Montana, with her husband and two Yorkies. She has a love for words and their stories and has responded to life through poetry and art for as long as she can remember. She also enjoys gardening and cultivating beauty in her small corner of the world, whether in person or online. Elizabeth writes for The Black Barn Online, and her work has been published in The Habit Portfolio, Calla Press, The Way Back to Ourselves, The Rabbit Room Poetry Substack, and others. You can find her on Instagram at @punamulta.priory and at elizabethwickland.substack.com.