If you read these newsletters or are around me for more than a few hours, you’re bound to hear me talk about taking silent retreats. Getting away to hear the voice of the earth and my own inner teacher is absolutely the key to my sanity, happiness, activism, and vocational direction. For the last 7 years I’ve been going to Turtle Haven Sanctuary, and I went again this week to remember who I am away from my roles and duties and seek discernment about my service in and to the world.
Part of the shrine walk in the woods at Turtle Haven is a plaque with Wendell Berry’s famous poem. I never get tired of this poem and of the example he sets for us. Not owning a computer or smartphone, farming his acreage in Kentucky, he shows us that it’s possible to do what’s ours to do, however “small,” and in so doing, create ripples of revolution far beyond our sphere. He shows us how the peace of wild things isn’t a way to hide out and ignore the travails of the world but is actually the balm that helps us stay engaged.
I don’t know about you, but “despair for the world” is definitely growing in me, and I certainly “fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be.” If I choose to numb out, there are many corporations that are ready to take my money and help me do it—alcohol and other substances, sports betting, shopping, scrolling, streaming, opining, prognosticating, pontificating, and pseudo-wellness scams. They are ready to profit from my pain and uncertainty.
Or I can “come into the presence of still water” and “rest in the grace of the world.” The price is that, while I’m driving out, I’ll worry about shirking my responsibilities. I’ll text the kids again about letting the dog out and putting the garbage out. I’ll remind myself that this getaway is a privileged thing to do and feel some shame about that. I’ll almost talk myself out of it every time! I’m so glad I didn’t.
May you live in reality this week, and may you find that the grace of the world is there, supporting you as it has always done.
The Peace of Wild Things
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.