In nature there are few sharp lines.

A. R. Ammons, the poet of earth and spirit, once declared: “In nature there are few sharp lines.” These words are not merely an observation of the physical world, but a meditation upon existence itself. They remind us that life, like the rivers and forests, is a matter of gradations, of blending, of transitions rather than absolutes. The horizon does not divide the sky from the earth with a blade’s edge; the dawn does not slice night apart from day, but lets light seep gently into darkness. So too are our lives: not fixed, not severed, but flowing from one state into another.

The origin of Ammons’s thought lies in his deep devotion to the land. He walked among fields, streams, and wooded paths, and from them drew a philosophy as enduring as the seasons. He saw that humans, with their desire for certainty, draw lines on maps, mark boundaries on soil, divide time into hours and days. Yet nature resists such rigidity. The stream is not where the land ends, but where land and water mingle. The forest is not where the meadow ceases, but where one world leans into another. To live in harmony with nature is to accept that clarity often comes not as a straight edge, but as a gentle blending.

History itself shows us the peril of forgetting this truth. Think of the rigid ideologies that have scarred nations—those who sought to divide people into pure and impure, worthy and unworthy, belonging and alien. These sharp lines birthed wars, oppression, and cruelty. But when wise leaders embraced the truth of blending—that cultures, peoples, and ideas flow into each other as rivers do—peace and creativity flourished. The Renaissance, born of the merging of Greek, Roman, and Christian thought, is one such testament: greatness comes not from sharp lines, but from crossings, mixtures, and continuities.

Even in the realm of science, this truth resounds. Charles Darwin, studying the natural world, saw that species were not divided by unyielding borders, but shaped by gradual changes over time. Evolution itself is proof of Ammons’s wisdom: in nature, one form becomes another not by abrupt leaps, but by slow transformation. To understand life, then, is to understand the beauty of transitions. To deny this is to remain blind to the unfolding of creation.

The lesson is both humbling and empowering. Too often we demand sharp lines—between success and failure, good and evil, life and death. Yet life resists our categories. A so-called failure may carry the seed of victory. A shadow in the heart may teach compassion that pure light never could. Even death itself, feared as an ending, is but another passage, another blending, as the body returns to the earth and nourishes new life. When we accept the blurred edges, we begin to see the wholeness of the world.

Practically, let us live in patience with the gray areas. Do not despise uncertainty—it is the soil in which wisdom grows. When facing conflict, resist the urge to divide the world into enemies and allies alone; seek the middle places, where understanding may dwell. When striving toward goals, know that progress is seldom a leap, but a slow current. And when looking at others, do not demand sharp lines of perfection, but honor the blending of strength and weakness that makes them human.

Thus, Ammons’s words stand as a lantern for those who walk the crooked paths of life: “In nature there are few sharp lines.” To live by this truth is to live with humility, patience, and reverence. It is to look at the horizon and see not division but union, to look at one’s life and see not broken pieces but a flowing whole. And in that vision, the soul finds peace, for it learns to embrace the eternal truth of nature—that all things mingle, all things change, and in that change lies beauty everlasting.