You’re rushing. I’m rushing. We’re all basically vibrating at a frequency of "too much to do" nearly every second of the day. And then you read Mary Oliver.
It’s like someone finally turned the volume down on the world. Honestly, her poem "When I Am Among the Trees" isn't just a piece of literature; it’s a manual for not losing your mind in the 21st century. She didn't write about nature as some distant, pretty thing to look at through a window. For Oliver, the woods were a sanctuary, a therapist, and a church all rolled into one.
The Trees Are Calling You (Literally)
In the poem, Oliver lists them out: willows, honey locust, beech, oaks, pines. She doesn’t just say "the forest." She names them. There’s a specific kind of respect in that. You’ve probably felt it too—that weird shift in your chest when you step off the pavement and onto dirt.
She writes that these trees give off "hints of gladness." That’s a bit of an understatement, right? She goes as far as to say they "save her, and daily." That isn’t just poetic fluff. Oliver had a notoriously difficult childhood, marked by abuse and a "very dysfunctional family," as she told Britannica and other biographers. The woods near her childhood home in Maple Heights, Ohio, weren't just a playground. They were the only place she felt safe.
Why We’re So "Distant from the Hope" of Ourselves
One of the most gut-punch lines in the poem is when she admits to being "distant from the hope of myself."
Ouch.
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We all have this version of ourselves—the one who is patient, who listens, who doesn't check their phone while someone is talking. Oliver calls this the version that has "goodness, and discernment." But life happens. Emails happen. Stress happens. Suddenly, that "good" version of you is miles away.
The trees, though? They don’t care about your productivity. They tell her to "stay awhile." They remind her that the light actually flows from the branches. It sounds sorta mystical, but if you’ve ever seen sunlight filtering through a canopy of old oaks, you know exactly what she’s talking about. It looks like the air itself is glowing.
The "Pencil in the Tree" Strategy
Mary Oliver was an absolute powerhouse of observation. She famously walked the woods of Provincetown, Massachusetts, for decades with a hand-sewn notebook in her pocket.
There’s a great story—fact, not legend—that she once found herself deep in the woods without a pen. She was so frustrated by the lost opportunity to record a thought that she started hiding pencils in the trees along her favorite paths. Just in case. That’s the level of commitment we’re talking about. She wasn’t "content creating." She was witnessing.
It’s Simple, Really
The climax of the poem is the trees "calling out" their message. And it’s shockingly simple.
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- Go easy.
- Be filled with light.
- Shine.
That’s it. That’s the whole job description of being a human, according to the pines and the willows.
Critics like Alicia Ostriker have noted that Oliver had this "ecstatic" vision, similar to Walt Whitman or Ralph Waldo Emerson. But she was more grounded. She knew about predators and prey. She knew nature wasn't all sunshine; it was also rot and death. Yet, she chose to focus on the "gladness."
Why This Poem Hits Different in 2026
We live in an era where "forest bathing" (or shinrin-yoku) is a clinical recommendation for stress. Scientists are proving what Mary Oliver knew by instinct: being around trees lowers your cortisol and boosts your immune system.
But Oliver takes it further than just "health benefits." She’s talking about a "somatic spirituality." This is a fancy way of saying your body needs to be there, feeling the bark, smelling the damp earth, and bowing—yes, she literally says "bow often"—to something older and slower than yourself.
How to Actually Do This (Without Moving to the Woods)
You don’t need a thousand acres of old-growth forest to get what Mary Oliver was talking about. You just need a little bit of intentionality and maybe a comfortable pair of shoes.
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Walk without a destination. If you’re walking to "get your steps in," you’re doing it wrong. Try walking until you find a tree that looks interesting, then just stop. That’s it.
Learn the names. Don't just see "green stuff." Is it a Maple? A Birch? A Ginkgo? When you name something, you start to care about it. You start to see it as a "who" instead of a "what."
Leave the phone at home. Or at least put it on airplane mode. You can’t hear the trees stirring in their leaves if you’re listening to a podcast about the economy.
Practice the "Bow." You don't have to literally prostrate yourself in the dirt (though Oliver probably would). It’s more of an internal posture. Acknowledging that you are a small, temporary part of a very big, very old world. It’s humbling. And honestly? It’s a huge relief to be insignificant for a few minutes.
Mary Oliver died in 2019, but her "among the trees" philosophy is more alive than ever. She wasn't trying to be a guru. She was just a woman who went into the woods and realized that the trees were much better at being alive than she was—so she decided to take notes.
The next time you feel like you’re vibrating out of your skin with stress, remember her honey locusts and her oaks. They aren’t hurrying. They’re just standing there, being filled with light. Maybe we should try it too.
To put this into practice today, find the nearest tree—even if it's a struggling one on a city sidewalk—and give it thirty seconds of your undivided attention. Notice the texture of the bark and the way the light hits the highest leaves. Leave your phone in your pocket and just stand still until you feel the urge to rush start to fade.