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I Go Among Trees and Sit Still

Recently I gave myself the challenge of learning a poem off by heart. It’s been over a decade or two since I’ve  a poem or a piece of text off by heart.

I made a note in my journal of this beautiful poem by Wendell Berry which I had come across during some random researching on the internet.  A Sunday morning lying in bed, reading it through and learning it line by line was deeply satisfying. I typed it out and added one of my favourite tree images to inspire my connection with the piece.

Have a read of the poem and see what you think. The questions at the end may also help you to explore your thinking and reflections about the piece. Use the image of the Tree to visualise and meditate on the words. The visual image really helped me to connect with the words.

I go among trees and sit still.


All my stirring becomes quiet

Around me like circles on water. 


My tasks lie in their places 


Where I left them, asleep like cattle…

Then what I am afraid of comes.


I live for a while in its sight.


What I fear in it leaves it,


And the fear of it leaves me.


It sings, and I hear its song.

By Wendell Berry from Sabbaths, 1987, North Point Press

  1. When you look at the image of this tree how does it make you feel and what does it stimulate you to think about?
  2. Which lines of the poem resonates with you most?
  3. Which of your own tasks or items on your to do list lie in places that could be best left to sleep forever in your own life right now?
  4. Where and how do you find stillness in your day or week?
  5. Is there a tree from your earlier life that causes you to stop, pause and reconnect?
  6. What are you afraid of?

1 Comment

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1 Comment to I Go Among Trees and Sit Still

  1. by Suzie Rivera

    On June 4, 2013 at 7:43 pm

    Ah, the tree reminds me of his other poem : The Sycamore
    In the place that is my own place, whose earth
    I am shaped in and must bear, there is an old tree growing,
    a great sycamore that is a wondrous healer of itself.
    Fences have been tied to it, nails driven into it,
    Hacks and whittles cut in it, the lightning has burned it.
    There is no year it has flourished in
    that has not harmed it. There is a hollow in it
    that is its death, though its living brims whitely
    at the lip of the darkness and flows outward.
    Over all its scars has come the seamless white
    of the bark. It bears the gnarls of its history
    healed over. It has risen to a strange perfection
    in the warp and bending of its long growth.
    It has gathered all accidents into its purpose.
    It has become the intention and radiance of its dark face.
    It is a fact, sublime, mystical and unassailable.
    In all the country there is no other like it.
    I recognize in it a principle, an indwelling
    the same as itself, and greater, that I would be ruled by.
    I see that it stands in its place, and feeds upon it,
    and is fed upon, and is native, and maker.

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