The Peace of Wild Things

by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

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.

Voice

Hello? Is anyone listening? I'd like to say something.

It's not that I don't have an opinion. I'm just out of practice at giving it. My voice has never been loud and often not asked for, so for years I sat and let my thoughts collect on themselves and along the way never really learned how to properly express myself. My insecurities creep up and I remain silent to appease the lies they tell me.

"No one else thinks that." "What authority do you have?" "You'll be a hypocrite if you say that."

I've grown tired of being silent and through writing I'm finding my voice again. It's sounds distant at time and a little weak, but I'm strengthened in my weaknesses.

So, what is it I want to say? Listen and I'll tell you.

What I Like

--The cutting of the corn.
--Walking in the fields.
--Traipsing through the woods.