The Peace of Wild Things

Yesterday, I drove from Issaquah, across the Cascade Mountains, to Wenatchee for the Apple Blossom Festival.

As the road climbed toward Snoqualmie Pass, dense evergreen forests—firs and cedars rising in quiet ranks—gave way to open views of mountain peaks, still dusted with late snow.

Then, almost at once, the wide, sunlit expanse of Kittitas Valley came into view—rolling hills, open fields, and a sky that stretched without end.

Then, Blewett Pass, where winding curves and stands of larch gradually softened to orchards and vineyards that lined the path into Wenatchee Valley.

Two and a half hours of quiet, unfolding beauty—enough to steady a restless mind.

I found myself thinking of Wendell Berry’s “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 come into the peace of wild things…
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Washington, you are home. And I will return—again and again—to that grace and stillness.