It usually happens around 3:00 AM. You’re lying there, staring at the ceiling, and your brain starts doing that thing. It’s a highlight reel of everything that could go wrong. The bank account, the climate, the kids, that weird email from your boss—it all piles up until you feel like you’re vibrating.
Honestly, it’s exhausting.
But back in 1968, a guy named Wendell Berry wrote eleven lines of poetry that basically became the ultimate "off-switch" for that specific kind of spiral. It’s called The Peace of Wild Things. Even if you aren't a "poetry person," you've probably seen these lines on a Pinterest board or heard them read in a yoga class. There is a reason this specific poem hasn't disappeared into the dusty archives of English lit. It hits a nerve that hasn't stopped throbbing for sixty years.
The Peace of Wild Things: What’s He Actually Saying?
The poem starts in the dark. Berry describes that "despair for the world" that grows inside him. He’s waking up at the "least sound." He’s worried about his life and, more importantly, his children’s lives.
Sound familiar? It should.
Instead of scrolling through news feeds or checking his heart rate on a smartwatch, Berry does something radically simple: he goes outside. He goes to the water where a wood drake rests. He finds a great heron feeding.
Here is the kicker: he calls these creatures "wild things / who do not tax their lives with forethought / of grief."
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Think about that. Animals don't pre-game their sadness. A heron isn't standing in the marsh wondering if the fish will run out in 2029. The wood drake isn't losing sleep over a potential recession. They just are. Berry isn't saying we should be mindless animals, but he is suggesting that we spend way too much time paying "taxes" on grief that hasn't even happened yet.
Why this poem is a 1968 time capsule (and a 2026 mirror)
You have to look at when he wrote this. 1968 was a nightmare. The Vietnam War was screaming in the background. Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy were assassinated. The world felt like it was ripping at the seams.
Berry wasn't some hermit hiding from reality. He was an activist. He was a farmer. He was deeply involved in the mess of the world. But he realized that you can't fight for a better world if your internal world is a charred wasteland.
Today, we have different stressors—algorithmic anxiety, the "permanent daylight" of our screens, the feeling that we need to be productive every waking second. The peace of wild things is the antidote to the "hustle." It’s the permission to be "day-blind" for a minute.
How to actually "Rest in the Grace of the World"
It's easy to read a poem and feel good for five seconds. It's harder to live it. Wendell Berry lives on a farm in Kentucky, which makes it easy for him to find a wood drake. Most of us live in suburbs or cities where the closest thing to a "wild thing" is a pigeon with a missing toe.
But the "grace of the world" isn't a location. It’s a shift in attention.
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1. Stop taxing your future
Berry’s phrase about "forethought of grief" is the most important part of the poem. Psychologists call this "anticipatory anxiety." It’s the mental energy you spend on a disaster that is currently 0% real. When you catch yourself doing this, remind yourself that the "wild things" aren't paying that tax. Why should you?
2. Find "Still Water" (Even in the City)
You don't need a 100-acre farm. You need a window. You need a park bench. You need to look at something that isn't trying to sell you something or tell you the news.
- Watch a tree in the wind.
- Look at the way light hits a brick wall at 4:00 PM.
- Observe a bird. Any bird.
The point is to witness a life that is happening independent of your drama. It’s incredibly grounding to realize the world keeps spinning even when you aren't "managing" it.
3. Embrace the "Day-Blind Stars"
Berry mentions feeling the stars above him—"day-blind stars / waiting with their light."
This is such a cool image. The stars are always there, even at noon. You just can't see them because the sun is too loud. Peace is the same way. It’s not something you have to manufacture; it’s something you have to notice once you quiet down the "noise" of your own fears.
The "Mad Farmer" Philosophy
To understand this poem, you kinda have to understand the man. Berry is famous for being "the mad farmer." He’s a guy who refused to use a computer, who uses horses to plow his fields, and who thinks industrial "progress" is mostly a scam.
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He’s not being a Luddite just for fun. He’s making a point about scale.
When we think about "the world," we think about 8 billion people and global crises. That’s too big for a human brain to carry. Berry’s work is all about returning to the local. The specific drake. The specific heron. The specific patch of grass.
When you shrink your world down to what you can actually touch and see, the despair starts to lift. It’s hard to be depressed about "The Future" when you are busy noticing the way a specific flower is opening.
Actionable Steps: Your Own 3:00 AM Escape Plan
If you find yourself in that state of "despair for the world," don't just try to think your way out of it. You can't solve a thinking problem with more thinking.
- Physically leave the room. If you’re stuck in bed, the bed becomes a trigger for anxiety. Get out.
- Find a non-human rhythm. Listen to the wind, the rain, or even just the hum of the fridge. Anything that isn't a human voice or a digital ping.
- Practice "The Peace of Wild Things" Breathing. Read the poem slowly. Inhale on "I come into the peace of wild things." Exhale on "And am free."
Honestly, the world is always going to be a bit of a mess. There will always be a reason to stay awake at night. But as Berry reminds us, there is a whole other world—the wild one—that is doing just fine without our permission.
Go find a patch of grass. Lie down. Let the world carry you for a while. You’ve been carrying it long enough.
Your next move: Take five minutes today to sit outside without your phone. Don't "meditate" or try to be spiritual. Just look for one "wild thing"—a bug, a bird, a weed growing through the sidewalk—and watch it for sixty seconds. Notice how it isn't worried about your to-do list.