I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

From Wendell Berry’s “The Peace of Wild Things“

I know this to be true. I find peace in wild things. The smell of magnolia and honeysuckle. The sound of waves and a cat’s purr. The taste of a tomato in July and cherries during a Michigan summer. The touch of a dog’s fur or a snake’s skin. The sight of a pelican diving or a horse running across a field. Frogs. Bees. Elephants. Seasons. Stars. Seas. They are bigger than my shadow or my reflection. They are lighter than the weight I often carry. They are wilder than I allow myself to be.

I am new to the peace of wild things. I liked to play outdoors as a child, but would not have considered myself outdoorsy. I loved our annual camping trip. I created worlds with my neighborhood friends in the woods behind my elementary school. I rode my bike everywhere. I found swing sets and swimming pools like most kids find ice cream. The outdoors were a taste of permission, imagination, and freedom.

As I have grown older, I have been drawn to the peace of wild things. Parks. Rivers. Oceans. Rolling Hills. Mountains. Meadows. I have sought refuge with wild things. I turn to wild things — the open spaces of life and color — when things are upside down. Wild things are never upside down. The pace of wild things always make sense. Wild things change and grow in perfect time. Wild things are harmony in dissonance. Wild things are the connection between truth and beauty. Wild things are safe in the way that everything lives by the same rules. They are sense in a world that often does not make sense. There is peace there.