I went to Walden on Sunday.
Walden. Like, Walden Pond, like where Henry David Thoreau lived and wrote, like the place eponymous with the book we just read in my American Lit class. Walden.
If you can't tell, I was crazy excited to go. Like, silent-scream-flap-my-hands excited. But Walden is not a concert, it's a temple. It would have been strange and horrible for me to respond with stomping my feet, or shrieking, or hopping around. So I calmed myself—outwardly at least—and embarked on my understated tourist venture.
When we showed up it was rainy and cold. We started in the tourist center because I wanted to read up before we headed out to the pond. I'd bought a copy of Walden at Harvard Bookstore the day before, but I'd forgotten it. I was there with my sister, and she hadn't read Thoreau before, so we both cooped up for a while to prepare.
After that, we went to the little remake of the cabin Throeau built. It's one tiny room, with a stove, bed, and chair.
We soon made our way to the pond, across a road and down a forested hill. On the walk down, I was thinking what I'd been thinking the whole time: There's no way a pond can be as cool as I want it to be. There's no way it can live up to the super expensive Uber, the 1100 mile anticipation I've built coming up to Massachusetts, the 162 years of being famous and old to seem cooler than it actually is....there's no way I can expect all that from a pond.
Then, I rounded the corner, stepped onto the sand, and looked at Walden.
The water was blue or gray, and stretched over an area the perfect size for a pond. It was outlined in a ring of wet sand, perfect for a walk, and bordered by New England's perfect fall-colored trees. There weren't many people around—just enough for distant camaraderie—and a few swimmers bobbed in the water or dried off in the poolhouse on the shore. My vision was a crosscut of slate blue, fall confetti, and delightful-dreary grey. I was thrilled.
We walked the border of the pond for an hour or so, counterclockwise almost halfway around and back. It was beautiful, and I was so happy. There's something about being a pilgrim. I love going to a place because it's connected to something that earned a place in my soul or changed a thought in my mind. Experiencing in the physical world something that changed my rational world gives validity to my mind's love of whatever it is. It also connects me to other people who love the same thing, and to the place or author itself.
If you're in Boston, go to Walden. Please. It won't disappoint.
To finish, here's a few Thoreau quotes:
"Begin where you are, and such as you are, without aiming mainly to become of more worth, and with kindness aforethought, go about doing good."
"When we are unhurried and wise, we perceive that only great and worthy things have any permanent and absolute existence, that petty fears and petty pleasures are but the shadow of reality."
And, a good one to leave you with,
"The greatest art is to shape the quality of the day."
Bye!
Charlie
