Pleased To Meet You, Mr. Thoreau

Sometimes my own ignorance astounds me.

One cannot, evidently, make a single lap through green-living and sustainability on the internet without running into some reference to Henry David Thoreau. Much to my own embarrassment I must admit that until today I had never read anything by this man. Not one word. While surfing some random blogs this morning I ran into this post. At the end she quotes him:

"Let your life be a counter-friction to stop the machine."

I stopped dead in my tracks. There was that damned machine again, and this man Henry knew about it. He knew about it more than one hundred and fifty years ago. How could it be that I have never read anything written by Thoreau?

Procrastination.

Years ago, my freshman year of highschool in fact, I had some passing interest in reading his work. I asked for a copy of "Walden" for Christmas. Under the tree, wrapped in pretty paper and hardcover bound was "Walden and Other Writings of Henry David Thoreau". Somehow, though, time slips away from me. I got busy with whatever it is that girls get busy with in those young days, and Mr. Thoreau was relegated to the bookshelf and my ever growing list of books I'll get around to reading someday.

This morning I was overcome by my interest in this man again. I looked him up and read a little about his life. Amazingly it all felt incredibly current - incredibly relevant. I followed a link to read his essay Civil Disobedience. I felt like this man was in my head - expressing thoughts I've had no words for.

At lunch I went to the bookshelf - determined now that I should read this book that has languished for so long. I opened the cover and saw the inscription in my mother's hand - "To Sasha. XOXO. M&D. 1988"

1988? 20 years? Madness. Could it really be? Have I been on this earth long enough to say that I have been carrying a book around for 20 years? Let alone without ever reading it? Suddenly the list of books - the stacks - the piles of books that I have been putting off reading seem tragic. Their dust covers are just that - covered in dust. What in the world have I been doing with my time?

This world exhausts me. By choice, by ignorance, and finally by procrastination I have given the last 17 years to the machine. All of my energy, all of my spirit, all of my days - each minute that I could have spent in the open air among the leaves and grass standing in the sun - they wail at me for the loss of all this time. My life, each precious moment, each breath that I should have treasured I have instead spent feeding the machine.

I have spent countless hours in contemplation of my misery. My thoughts towards happiness - "positive self-talk" - telling myself that it is me and that it is in me to find happiness in the place I find myself in the world. I've told myself time and again that where I am and what I am doing is only incidental the breath I am breathing and the life I am living. I have told myself that I should be happy to be alive. I have made lists of what I should be happy for. I have made lists of the ways in which I am serving the world. All of these things I have done in an effort to persuade my spirit toward silence and acquiescence - convincing myself that some peace could be found if only I could find my resolve in this life to just "be".

RUBBISH!!! All of it. Wasted time. That is all that is has been.

I will not deny that from these years I have gleaned some joy. That joy has been mixed with the sorrow that life brings. Existence is not a flat-line. There will be bad times to go with the good. Still - those times that I recall have all to do with family and with love - with life and death... none that I can recall with any pleasure are tied to the machine. For the machine I have hog-tied my spirit and thrown it in the closet and made my way like a zombie through days of misery - all the while my spirit crying in the closet for want of wind, and sun, and rain...

and freedom.

The words that I HAVE read - those of Walt Whitman, Joseph Campbell, Richard Bach, and others - are in my head this day. All of them cry out against the machine. All of them tell me that it is my choice. All of them tell me to live my life and treasure my moments. All of them speak of freedom. Let me be reminded this day that freedom is a choice, and that the way in which I spend each moment of my life, my energy, and spirit is up to me.

How then does one reconcile integrity with misery? There are debts that must be paid and therefore work that must be done. Please hear my heavy sigh as I resign myself to this fact. There is no escape today, but perhaps fuel added to propel me towards the door.