“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”
To put it in other words, and in another quote:
“Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads.”
Both sentiments came from a good man, Mr. Henry David Thoreau. Today is his birthday, having entered this world on July 12, 1817, hailing from Concord, Massachusetts.
He wrote a book, once, called Walden. In it, Thoreau tells us of his love of nature. He also gives us a clear picture of his experiences over the course of two years, two months, and two days in a cabin he built near Walden Pond. It sat in a woodland owned by his friend and mentor Ralph Waldo Emerson, near Concord.
Thoreau made precise scientific observations of nature in his book. He identified many plants and animals by name, using both their popular names as well as scientific terms. He wrote down everything in great detail. He conducted experiments, took measurements, and noticed his surroundings, all the while finding time to wax poetic.
But I never know what to call Henry David Thoreau. Do you suppose he went by Henry? Or David? Hank? HD? One thing I do know for sure is that most people mispronounce his last name. He pronounced it “THOR-oh,” leaning hard on the first syllable.
Ralph Waldo’s son, Edward, stated that the accent in Thoreau’s name was on the first syllable. Everyone called him “Mr. Thorough.”
Another odd bit about his name. He was born David Henry — his legal name. But he switched his first and middle names after graduating from Harvard. I’m not sure why.
Most people know about Thoreau’s time in Walden Woods. But in addition to that, he was quite clear about his involvement with Transcendentalism, abolition, and his views on civil disobedience.
When I imagine Walden Pond and good old Hank shuffling around there, I see a small, quaint body of water, green in color, and surrounded by the cover of trees, barely seeing the sun for most of the day. Yet, in reality, Walden Pond is a 62-acre great pond with a maximum depth of 100 feet. That’s a pretty big pond.
I also think of his place there as a little one-room abode, kept neat as a pin, with wooden floors and a freshly scrubbed table. I’m not sure how much of a housekeeper Hank might have been. But the OCD in me likes to imagine it spotless and sparse.
Henry D built that little home. Yet, after he left the place in 1847, the structure went through multiple inhabitants. He sold the house to Ralph Waldo, even though it was on land that Emerson already owned. Emerson sold it to his gardener. For whatever reason, the gardener never moved in.
No one ever lived in that little house on the pond again. A local farmer named James Clark bought the place in 1849. Mr. Clark took that shack and relocated it to his nearby farm. He used it to store his grain. About 20 years later, the roof of the building was removed and used to cover a pigsty. Finally, the rest of it ended up as timber to fix Clark’s barn. Today, there is a replica of Thoreau’s house near Walden Pond.
He lived there all by himself. Some historians and biographers speculate that Thoreau was gay. He never married, and he seemed to prefer celibacy. His journals reveal references to male bodies but never mention that of a female one.
A curious man. A thoughtful man.
He didn’t stick around very long, dying at the age of 44. Tuberculosis was the culprit.
There is much more to him, and he left a lot of that with us, in his thoughts and his words. Mostly, he was aware. As we should hope to be.
“Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden
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“Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake.”
― Henry David Thoreau
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“…for my greatest skill has been to want but little.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden
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“I learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden: Or, Life in the Woods
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Where’s Waldo? Walden? Nope. That’s Henry David.
