Though I’m trying to spend less time on social media, I will admit that the Instagram algorithm got one thing right in introducing me to the poetry of Jarod K. Anderson. The pandemic pushed me to spend more time outside, and Anderson’s poetry reminded me of why I kept it up afterward: for the small moments of magic. These vignettes were interwoven with insights about the interplay of the natural and human-made worlds as well as how nature could help to illuminate (though not necessarily cure) mental illness. I bought his first two slim volumes of poetry (Field Guide to the Haunted Forest and Love Notes from the Hollow Tree) and then a third (Leaf Litter). When I learned that he had written a memoir, Something in the Woods Loves You, I made sure the publication date stayed on my radar.

After reading the first few pages, I already knew I was going to love this book, which is Anderson’s story of learning to live with mental illness. Each chapter focuses on a particular lesson he learned, intertwined with memories and observations of a particular plant or animal that helped him learn it.

I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression for many years, and many of the observations in Anderson’s poetry resonated with me. Something in the Woods Loves You was the same but magnified. I rarely dogear pages of a book, but I wanted to make note of certain statements and take them to heart. Since college, I’ve fallen out of the college practice of reading with a pencil or highlighter in hand, so this was how I signposted the places in the book I wanted to return to. (I already know I’ll have to reread the book again to find them all.) Some examples:

• “Hopelessness is painful, but so is hope. The pain of hopelessness is that there is no rest in sight from the pain and misery. The pain of hope is that happiness and peace are possible, and possibility opens new paths to exhaustion and disappointment. Hope is, all by itself, a courageous act.” (p. 45)
• “The kind and worthy wisdom we need involves learning to embrace the truth that we will never master ourselves, our lives, or our worlds, though we can learn to view the concept of mastery as what it is: a toxic fantasy that clashes with the reality of our minds and our nature. We don’t need perfection, and we don’t need to land upon one final, objective truth.” (p. 158)
• “Words matter. They themselves are potent magic. As such, it’s worth noticing what our word choice is doing to our realities. Are our word choices closing gates or opening ways to larger vistas?” (p. 179)

While I was reading the book, I occasionally worried that the language was becoming too “poetic” for some readers. But then I thought of another phenomenon Instagram had introduced me to: timelapse paintings. Occasionally it seems that the painters are being reckless with large swathes of color. As the details are added in, though, it becomes clear that these backgrounds were created deliberately and that they are necessary to the overall composition. Similarly, by the time the chapter was wrapping up, the ideas and images had fallen into place to make a larger point.

Many memoirs I’ve picked up fail to answer the basic question of why I should care about this person’s experience. Is beautiful writing enough to get people past that? Or was I already primed to care because of my own struggles with depression and familiarity with the author’s other works? (Note: I’ve listened to an episode of Anderson’s podcast, but it wasn’t quite for me.) Or because I agree with him on a lot of points? Unknown. But if you’re curious as to whether the book might be up your alley, reading a few of Anderson’s poems on Instagram just takes a small investment of your time.