Reflection on The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry

I have just finished reading Wendell Berry's The Peace of Wild Things, and I find myself profoundly moved, as if I’ve been sitting at the edge of a quiet lake, watching the ripples fade into stillness. The poem feels less like a piece of writing and more like a doorway, opening onto a landscape where the burdens of life are gently set down and the soul is invited to rest.

Berry’s words carry a clarity that speaks directly to the hidden ache we so often carry—a weariness born of all that the human heart holds: responsibilities, fears, and the relentless noise of modern living. As I read, I recognized myself in his portrayal of “despair for the world.” It is not a loud despair, but a quiet and persistent undercurrent, as if the soul, like a bird caught in a storm, searches for a branch sturdy enough to land upon.

The image of retreating to where the wild things dwell touched something deep within me. I thought of the times I, too, have turned to nature when my spirit was frayed. There is a peace there that feels almost otherworldly, though it is rooted in the very heart of this world. The wild things do not scheme or fret, Berry reminds us; they do not anguish over what they cannot control. They simply are. And in their being, they embody a freedom I long for—unencumbered by the weight of what-ifs and should-haves.

I wonder, as I reflect, why we humans find it so difficult to be at peace in the same way. Is it because we have forgotten how to belong to the world, as the wild things do? They seem to trust implicitly in the rhythms of life: the turning of seasons, the coming and going of light, the rise and fall of water. And perhaps it is this trust that we have lost—the ability to lean into the mystery of things, to surrender to what we cannot see or control.

Berry speaks of lying down “in the grace of the world,” and I felt that line settle in me like a benediction. The word grace stood out, luminous and tender. It reminded me that grace is not something we earn or strive for; it is simply given. The world offers itself to us, freely and without judgment, and yet we so rarely accept its gifts. When was the last time I truly allowed myself to rest—not merely to stop, but to rest, to feel held by something larger than myself?

The final lines of the poem linger with me still: “For a time, I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.” Free. Such a small word, but what a vast horizon it opens. Freedom, in this sense, is not about escape; it is about belonging. To rest in the grace of the world is to recognize that I, too, am a part of its wild and wondrous web. I do not need to strive to earn my place here; it has already been given.

As I sit with these thoughts, I realize how often I carry my worries into the sacred spaces of nature. I walk through forests with my mind tangled in yesterday’s regrets or tomorrow’s fears, blind to the beauty unfolding around me. Berry’s words remind me to lay those burdens down, if only for a moment, and to let the peace of wild things restore me.

I think of the heron that stands, still and patient, at the edge of the water near my home. I have always admired its quiet dignity, its refusal to be hurried. Now, I see it as a teacher. It knows how to live in the present, to inhabit its place in the world with grace. The heron does not worry about whether it is enough or whether it is worthy; it simply is. And in its being, it is utterly free.

Berry’s poem is, for me, an invitation—to return, again and again, to the simple and profound truths that nature holds. To rest in its grace, to trust in its rhythms, and to find, within its stillness, a reflection of the peace I seek.

And so, as I close my eyes and let his words echo within me, I feel a quiet resolve taking root. The world of wild things will always be there, waiting to welcome me back when I forget how to rest. All I need to do is go.

All my Love and Light,

An