I was sitting in a crowded subway car last Tuesday, shoulder-to-shoulder with a guy eating a very pungent tuna sandwich and another person blasting techno through leaky headphones, when a line of poetry popped into my head. "When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the pumpkin pines, even the sun-steeped branches of the oaks..." It felt like someone had cracked a window in a room that hadn't seen fresh air in a decade.
That’s the thing about Mary Oliver’s work.
It isn't just "nature poetry" for people who own expensive hiking boots and $80 water bottles. Specifically, her poem When I Am Among the Trees has become a sort of secular anthem for the burnt-out, the anxious, and anyone who feels like they’re failing at the "business of being a person."
You've probably seen snippets of it on Instagram or Pinterest, usually superimposed over a blurry photo of a forest. But if you actually sit with the text, it’s doing something way more radical than just being "pretty." It’s a direct challenge to how we value ourselves in a world that demands constant productivity.
The Raw Power of Doing Absolutely Nothing
Most of us spend our days trying to prove we’re useful. We answer emails at 9:00 PM. We "optimize" our sleep. We track our steps.
Mary Oliver walks into the woods and basically says, "Stop it."
In When I Am Among the Trees, she writes about how the trees give off a "light and gladness." But the kicker—the part that honestly makes me want to cry sometimes—is when she says they stay around "not for a person’s purpose, but for their own."
Think about that.
We live in an era where everything has to be for something. If you go for a walk, it’s for cardio. If you read a book, it’s for personal growth. The trees in Oliver's world are just... there. They don't have a five-year plan. They aren't trying to "disrupt" the forest floor. They are just existing in their own light.
It’s a massive relief to read that.
Oliver, who died in 2019, spent most of her life in Provincetown, Massachusetts. She was famous for walking the woods with a notebook, often losing herself for hours. She wasn't an academic writing from a high tower; she was a woman who knew the names of the local owls and the specific way light hit a marsh at 5:00 AM. When she talks about being among the trees, she’s talking about a literal, physical practice that saved her life.
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Why Science Actually Backs Up the Poetry
It’s easy to dismiss this as "woo-woo" literary fluff. But the "light and gladness" Oliver describes is actually measurable.
There is a concept in Japan called Shinrin-yoku, or "forest bathing." It started in the 1980s as a response to the tech-boom burnout in Tokyo. The Japanese Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry, and Fisheries realized that people were literally working themselves to death, and they needed a solution that didn't involve more pills.
The science is kinda wild.
Trees emit organic compounds called phytoncides. These are essential oils that plants use to protect themselves from germs and insects. When we breathe them in, our bodies respond by increasing the activity of "Natural Killer" (NK) cells. These are the white blood cells that help fight off infections and even tumors.
So, when Oliver says she is "saved" by being among the trees, she isn't just being metaphorical. Her cortisol levels were likely dropping, her heart rate variability was improving, and her immune system was getting a literal boost.
She was biohacking before that was a cringe word.
The Myth of the "Saved" Self
One of the biggest misconceptions about this poem is that it’s purely happy. It isn't. Oliver acknowledges that she comes to the trees "so slowly." She mentions her own "terrible" thoughts and the "shining" she lacks.
The poem is a confession.
It’s about being a mess and looking for a place that won't judge you for it. The trees don't care if you've been "good" or if you've hit your KPIs for the quarter. They just stand there.
That lack of judgment is what allows her to "walk so slowly" and eventually, hopefully, learn to be "good" or "glad." It’s a process. It’s not an instant fix.
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How to Actually Experience "When I Am Among the Trees" Without Being a Poet
You don't need a national park to do this. Honestly, you don't even need a "forest."
A lot of people think they have to go to the Redwoods or the Amazon to have a "nature experience." That’s just another form of pressure. Oliver found her inspiration in the scrubby woods of Cape Cod—not exactly the most majestic, untouched wilderness on earth.
- Look for the "junk" nature: The weeds growing in the sidewalk crack. The overgrown tree in the vacant lot. The pigeons in the park. The trees in Oliver's poem are described as "willows" and "pines"—common, everyday trees.
- Leave the phone in the car: You cannot be "among the trees" if you are among your notifications. The "light and gladness" doesn't translate through a 6-inch screen.
- Stop trying to "get" something out of it: If you go into the woods expecting a spiritual epiphany, you probably won't get one. Go because you’re tired. Go because you’re annoyed. Just go.
The most famous line in the poem is arguably: "And they call again, 'It's simple,' they say, 'and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to be glad.'"
"To go easy."
We are so bad at that. We are a species of strivers. We want to conquer the trees, or log them, or map them, or photograph them for the 'gram. Oliver suggests that our actual "job" on this planet—the reason we were born—is much simpler and much harder: to just be glad.
Dealing With the "Terrible"
I want to talk about the word "terrible" in the poem.
Oliver says, "I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness, and discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly, and bow often."
She’s talking about the gap between who we want to be and who we actually are. We want to be the person who meditates and eats organic kale. Instead, we’re the person who snaps at the barista and spends four hours scrolling through TikTok.
Being among the trees provides a middle ground.
Nature doesn't have "goodness" or "discernment" in the way humans do. A tree isn't "good" because it grows straight; a twisted, gnarled tree is just as much a tree. By placing herself in that environment, Oliver gives herself permission to be "gnarled." She gives herself permission to be distant from her own hope.
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It’s an acceptance of the messy, fractured self.
Why This Poem Exploded During the Pandemic
It’s no coincidence that Mary Oliver’s sales spiked during 2020 and 2021. When the world felt like it was ending, people didn't turn to complex philosophical treatises. They turned to the woman who talked about goldfinches and oaks.
We were all "distant from the hope of ourselves" back then.
We were scared, stuck inside, and disconnected. The idea that we could just "go easy" felt like a lifeline. Even now, in a post-lockdown world where everything feels faster and louder than ever, the poem acts as a manual for survival.
It tells us that the world is still there, regardless of what the news cycle says. The sun-steeped branches are still reaching out. The "light and gladness" is a permanent fixture of the landscape, even if we can't see it from our desks.
Real-World Steps to Reclaim Your "Gladness"
If you feel like you've lost the "shining" Oliver talks about, you don't have to quit your job and move to a cabin. That’s a fantasy. Real life is usually more complicated.
Instead, try to incorporate the "Among the Trees" philosophy into the cracks of your day.
- Practice the "Bow": Oliver mentions she wants to "bow often." In many cultures, bowing is a sign of respect and humility. You don't have to literally bow to a shrub in your backyard (unless you want to), but try to notice one thing in nature every day that you didn't create and can't control. Acknowledge it.
- Acknowledge the "Hurry": Most of us hurry through the world without realizing it. Tomorrow, try to walk 10% slower than you usually do. Just 10%. See what you notice when you aren't trying to beat the crosswalk signal.
- Read the Poem Aloud: Poetry is meant to be heard. There is something about the cadence of Oliver's words that mimics the swaying of branches. Read it when you’re feeling particularly "terrible."
The poem doesn't promise that your problems will go away. It doesn't say the trees will pay your mortgage or fix your relationship. It just reminds you that you are part of something older, slower, and much more resilient than the digital world we’ve built for ourselves.
You aren't a machine that’s broken. You're just a person who has forgotten how to be "among the trees."
To really live this, start by finding a single tree near your home. It doesn't have to be a majestic oak; a dusty maple on a city street works too. Spend five minutes looking at the way the bark patterns change or how the leaves catch the late afternoon light. Don't take a photo. Don't check your watch. Just stand there and realize that, for this moment, you don't have to be anything other than a living thing in the presence of another living thing. That’s where the light starts to come back in.